That I prioritize exercise, that my body still works well, that I’m a happy drunk, that I’m happy when I get outside, that I like birding, that I have a (fairly) adventurous palate, and that sometimes—in certain clothes—I think my butt looks good.
Thursday, February 13, 2020
You are the first to die, the only one so far (if someone else left without telling me, it wasn’t before you, the first, the first everything), and now you are gone seven years already, and when I learned—just before—that you were dying (actively dying, a matter of hours, days), I kept a secret vigil, sending you thoughts, wishing you had replied that last time I wrote, wishing we could have been some sort of friends, hoping for someone to let you know that I knew, hoping on your death bed you would just know that I knew, and then, when out for an oh-so-festive Chinese New Year dinner with the usual suspects, welcoming the Year of the Snake, my phone vibrated with the inevitable text and I silently slinked to the restroom to cry, but it was a bad restroom for crying (no lock on the door, a single stall across from a public sink, almost certain interruption), so instead I shed my skin, slithered to the mirror, and studied my new self’s sheen—altered, because you are the first to die.
Friday, February 7, 2020
I may or may not have committed one or more of the following acts: driven at a speed higher than the limit; lifted magazines from waiting rooms; participated in an on-paper-illegal sexual relationship or two; recycled inappropriately; written and mailed an anonymous letter of questionable judgment; switched price tags on an item; partaken in ingestion of illegal substances; pinched office supplies from a place of employment; ordered drinks in a bar before I was of legal age; deaccessioned holiday ornaments in my collection by leaving them on other people’s trees; snuck into the gym without leaving a day pass; called the president a fucking asshole; wet a line without a license; shoved forbidden cream puffs into the pockets of a catering uniform; committed sexual acts that are illegal in certain states (unrelated to the cream puffs—mostly).