I'm waiting for my redeye home from Scottsdale, grateful I can stay at home Monday if I want to, grateful I can take the Airtrain and subway home, or go to bingo (to support the Ali Forney Center serving LGBT homeless youth, which was heavily affected by Hurricane Sandy) if I'm up for it, grateful I discovered Elif Shafak's memoir Black Milk. Tuesday I set in motion the process of incorporating, which feels way more adult than I am, but that's the way things are now, and I just have to catch up. 36 was intense, and even with all the good, I wouldn't want to repeat its worst moments. I learned so much, like how to search email on my phone, that drugs don't cure jealousy and I can be pretty good in a crisis and that I can take care of myself at home and 6,000 miles away. I did things I never would've imagined myself doing, surprised myself in all sorts of ways, and through trial and error and luck am somehow in a much better place than I was last November. When I sat at Sanctuary Tattoo almost a year ago, I couldn't have predicted where my crazy heart would lead, and maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Probably if I'd known in advance I would've fucked things up, but thankfully I didn't, and in a few days I will be back in my second home, which is more and more becoming where I feel the most comfortable.
So far, 37 is pretty good, but I think this photo is a lot more accurate of a picture of the age I feel: