A year of being an impossible woman having impossible fun

wrapping it up with a bang!!!

A woman that has lost all interest for last minute invitations and tests of how thinly her trust can be flattened with a rolling pin is a woman set up for success. She may not like who she’s become but it’s the best she’s ever been, so she’ll take it. It was a cold thankless night, January 2025. Something meaningful was born between dignity and holding up the line. She knew it was going to be a lucky, insufferable year.

A year of getting it all wrong and doing it alright. A year of hometown praise with an incision of a dreadful, necessary past. A year of skating on thin ice, rule bending, rewriting scriptures of playbooks that don’t work, unable to decipher all the cursive secrets and burning pages on the stove. A year of going back to where it all started to find yourself no longer tethered to what it was, what it is, what it will be, what it could be. Not terrified of it either. It’s just a building, a biblical name, or a song, it yields no power. A year of inflated costs of trouble and paying the price for saying yes too soon. A year of being one with the motion, split in half by the applause. A year of running from the punchline into the arms of a joke.

A year of realizing ones who used to jump to your salvation may themselves need saving, consequently coming to terms with not needing to be saved, not anymore, not now, not yesterday, not ever maybe. A year of learning that some people want to play with you because you’re unwell, wondering if the regenerative cells where a new tail grows out will bring an ending, too. A year of questioning who you are when there’s no bone in your body that needs immediate resolve, a year of grief over the fact that you’re not in distress, wishing you’d get lower before you’re ready to go higher. A year of pointing to where things went wrong enough precisely enough to change course, but not enough to find the root.

A year of withdrawing from lowlife spiritual activities like social stalking, aura farming, LinkedIn inboxing, beige gossiping, corporate speak, and jumping ideological ships to save face. A year of dumbing it down for the blazers and the girlbosses. A year of repeating yourself to those who didn’t hear the second or the third time. A year of not looking at things from a different perspective when said perspective is made of cardboard held up with paper glue. A year of running down the stairwell of some soulless Upper East Side studio because climbing the belly of somebody’s status is not what it’s cracked up to be since you wanted to be a woman, not a parasite. A year of quitting when it’s time, quitting too early, quitting too late, quitting with no footnotes, quitting under a fictional rationale, out and through, to hell with victimhood, quitting on ferry boats in Noord and over lousy texts in Bedstuy, quitting upon the gripping force of intuition and knowing that if your gut has yet to fail you, the chances of it leading you astray are close to zero. A year of dismantling fairytales, mirroring assumptions, working hard, dreaming late, resting forced, being guilty, being good.

A year of tender summer and untouchable spring, a year of yearning for something that awaits around the corner and repents good girlhood. A year of mishandling responsibility and drifting. Accepting change, accepting rehabilitation. Accepting that if you can gather a room full of New Yorkers that love you, you can surely get up in the morning and exercise free will and maybe there’s no need to die. A year of laying down, becoming what you wanted, going rogue, working slow, coming up glad and lustful.

A year of rewriting decades of not being an angry person. Being angry, being unjust, lashing out. A year of walking the soil of where you shouldn’t be to find yourself exactly where fate itself sketched out a silhouette-shaped space for your uneven body. A year of looking forward, looking back, making a misstep, then making it count. A year of sweating for it and from it, physical, visceral, hungry, demanding, a year of damn good bagels and honest-heartful fucking.

A year of expansive, truthful, confronting, lucky love, love that gives, love that fits in the closet and beams through the raw material, love that wouldn’t know selfishness if it dressed itself in admiration, love that gets you supine and naked and presses on the bruised parts of you, lifts up the abscesses and pushes the liquid out, forcing chaos into healing against its familiar judgment and greedy defenses. A year of seeing in someone’s eyes, for the first time, a steady future with a playful tune, not a cemetery, an abandoned house, or a problem to solve. A year of crying-laughing gratitude nothing else stood a chance. A year of falling harder and growing softer under sun-drenched confessions, bar seat kissing, telepathy under Bernini’s David, smiling in Retiro, four in the morning proclamations, denying a safe space then decking it out for holidays. A year of knowing that a ghost of an unknown woman is not a threat unless you make her one, that a sword only haunts you until you call it a spade.

A year of overnight bags, mysterious stains, losing grip, homemade dinners, dragging your feet through Greenpoint, knocking doors off hinges, making a house a home, false alarming into the megaphone. Voicing what you need and fighting for yourself, knot in stomach, tooth and nail, knife in hand. A year of overexplaining where it matters and going rightfully nonverbal where it doesn’t. A year of disappearing before scrutiny’s first call, but everybody already knows why you’re gone and it’s not like anything needs to be said. A year of being rough, grateful, noticed, ridiculous, hot. A year of being an impossible woman having impossible fun.