And I find myself needing every single last egg to be claimed - not just because of the work that went into them, but because it means there’s still room for this kind of thing.
Maybe there is. Maybe there isn’t.
But today feels like a good moment to find out.
*This* used to feel easier: not the logistics, but the SPACE for BombshellsATL. To create, to wander, to seek, to notice things.
Now everyone’s stretched thin. Tired. Doomscrolling. "At capacity."
This might be the last year.
See you out in these streets tomorrow! 🤸🏻
If you didn’t pay attention to my invite, you can’t be helped. A time was had. Money was raised. Dancing was mandatory. 💖💃🏻🪩
Wowzers. This egg is 🤌🏼 @starkatcosplay.bsky.social
💣🥚💥
In times like these, you have two options:
doomscroll or dance.
We chose dance.
#JordanKlepper will be hosting (6’4”, dances like a baby giraffe on ice), raising money for Freedom University.
#Atlanta, come fund something real. Stay for the chaos.
www.axs.com/events/13511...
That’s correct!
What’s the scientific name for the condition that leads you to believe buying a new notebook will fix everything?
Thank you, sweet friend! 🌺🌸🌼
The ‘small government’ party just greenlit a bill that bleeds $250 billion a year with zero funding in sight.
Calling the GOP ‘fiscally conservative’ is like calling a pickpocket a philanthropist. Predators in patriot drag.
WHY ARE WE LIKE THIS? #THEATLANTAWAY
So whether you’re sending flowers, lighting a candle, or just trying to emotionally survive the day and her guilt trip — here’s to the women who got us here.
Happy Mother’s Day.
And shoutout to the belly button:
weird little scar, big-ass origin story.
Your belly button is the ultimate “we’ve been through some stuff” souvenir. It’s your body’s way of saying,
“Yeah, I used to be literally attached to my mother.”
Before you had opinions, playlists, or trauma—
you had an umbilical cord.
And she was on the other end.
PSA: The global Latino family Whatsapp threads are just pope puns and memes.
Oh, look, "best by" dates can be replaced with "good luck" stickers.
Internet zaddy meets Easter art.
Pedro Pascal, ladies and gentlemen.
Artist: Patricia Hernandez
#bombshellsatl
The streets were frantic in 2019 for this art egg. Excited to see who finds it this year.
Returning artist, @okugisan.bsky.social! Gothic heart. Purple flowers blooming between the bones. This egg is a love letter to beauty that lingers—even in the dark. #bombshellsatl #fafatl #artegghunt
This beauty joins the hunt Friday, April 18th. You coming?
I don’t have a perfect takeaway.
Only this:
People will disappoint you.
People will surprise you.
Sometimes, they’ll do both in the same day.
And joy, like trust, is fragile—but it’s also weirdly resilient.
You hide it.
You hope someone finds it.
You believe, against odds, that maybe they will.
And while I was doing that—just letting it be what it was—the box of eggs turned up. Discarded a few feet away, somewhat scuffed, like it had been exiled and then changed its mind.
I let the community know. Called it a tiny absurd tragedy.
And then, something beautiful happened.
People got mad. On my behalf.
They cussed out the joy thieves.
They offered to donate eggs. To give back theirs so someone else could participate.
Only 8 or 10 eggs were left in it, but that wasn’t the point. In all these years, this had never happened. Several artists hadn’t even had the chance to pick theirs up.
I felt that familiar pang—the one that comes from trying to make something gentle in a world that is not.
Still, I showed up. I made a small logistical change: I moved the location where artists could pick up their blank eggs.
And then, yesterday. Poof.
Gone.
The box.
Missing.
This year is Year 11. And to be honest, I am already running on fumes.
The mood in the world is low, heavy. People are burned out, broke, grieving, stuck. Joy feels like a luxury item these days—something beautiful and breakable and maybe a little embarrassing to admit you still want.
At its core, the hunt runs on communal trust:
That people will drop the eggs.
That others will go looking.
That they’ll claim what they find.
It started in local parks—adult strangers, dressed in their Sunday best, crouched in flowerbeds.
Then thanks to a certain global virus, the hunt evolved into a Springtime scavenger poem.
For the past 10 years, I’ve put on an annual art egg hunt @bombshellsatl.bsky.social
For grown-ups. For weirdos. For people who still believe in a bit of magic, even if it comes in the shape of a Tina Turner egg tucked behind a street sign.
We don’t celebrate April Fools in a dystopia. 🙅🏻♀️
Everyone’s an “atlanta creative” until it’s time to show up on time and send a Google doc. 🫠
