Happy birthday, T., you old fool.
Another revolution around the sun is done again. So is three hundred and sixty-five days of worrying about nothing and everything.
Ah, my dear self, have you always been this neurotic? I suppose so. I suppose so.
But: here’s to being twenty-eight, and trying again, and believing again. Love will come, and joy, too, and perhaps things will finally fall into place. If not, well—you’re not alone.
Raising a glass. Staring at the sky.
God Says Yes To Me
I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I’m telling you is
Yes Yes Yes
(from The Writer’s Almanac)