This January I have lived about 18 years. It has been wonderful, awful, devastating, eye-opening, and enough. I will be thirty in June. That is supposed to mean something, and I intend to see that it does.
My stomach hurts in the way that it’s supposed to ache when you’re coming clean from a ton of shit you shouldn’t have done but will always be thankful you did.
It’s no secret that I don’t handle secrets well. After three decades I’ve decided to finally embrace that for what it’s worth to me. In that slow and sloppy manner I’ve accidentally perfected, the lies and unnecessary shadows of wasted youth are peeling away like sun-poisoned skin to reveal something old and neglected that has long deserved to meet the good people who created it.
Mr. 2011, I offer my usual apology for being so predictably late to your party. If it’s any consolation, I’ll probably stay later than most and help clean up like I always do. Except this time I’ll be doing it because I want to.
Not because I feel bad for trashing the place.