There are two dogs in my bed, but only one of them is mine.
The other belongs to my best friend, a dog I bought her a lifetime ago, when we were different people with different pronouns and different names —
before we were engaged, before we broke up —
and now I’m pup-sitting while she’s off enjoying Florida coastlines and having meetings at her dream job.
She’s earned every bit of this success. I’m so proud of her.
And I’m glad I get to watch her sweet, beautiful dog.
I’m off on my own adventure on Friday, my first time in Los Angeles, and I can’t wait to dance at Bar Sinister Saturday and pretend I’m in The Great Gatsby Friday, and in between see the beach and the boardwalk and the cemetery and shoot nudes with my favourite photographer.
Then I jet set to New York, with its museums, and haunted hotels, and Times Square, where I was once nearly arrested for being topless in public.
I feel something brewing.
It feels like something I’ve been manifesting for years is finally about to be birthed. I’m almost forty, too late for a newborn child but still just young enough to bear SOMEthing new.
Big things are on the way. I can feel it in my creaky bones, the way I feel the cold or the rain, only this time the sensation is euphoric and not like glass shards in my veins.
Tell me something good.
