24 was fun.
I broke two ribs! Read a lot of books! Ate more meals than I skipped, sang out-of-tune songs in bed with Fab, had sunday rituals with myself and heard the words ‘You’re doing good’ for the first time in a while.
It was more work and less sleep than I thought I could get used to, but also -not as hard as I’m used to. I didn’t break, I didn’t heal. I didn't —lose— myself. I stopped trying to —find— myself.
24 started with Helena and Kristi surprising me with tiramisu & balloons and ended with me surprising even myself, because holy hell, there’s a lot of stuff I could have fucked up by now and somehow still haven’t.
Sometimes not for lack of trying, but I guess there’s poetry in that, too. Just like there’s poetry in scary nights, and messy parts, and crying with your head in the toilet on the morning of your twentyfifth birthday, because it all works out in the end but that’s never going to be what’s interesting, so.
I made a wish. I’ve had leftover cake every day for a week. Life is fine. Fine, I tell you.