twice sixteen

14 January, 2016 3:22 a.m.

It is two thousand fucking sixteen and I am thirty fucking two years old.

I read this diary, and I think of the things I want to tell myself:

I. Get off the pill, that shit made you crazy.
II. You are so fucking talented.
III. Go to therapy sooner, kiddo. You needed it.
IV. You will be so fucking blessed:
A. Husband (yes, you married Jordan)
B. Cat, Sampson, snuggly
C. A house with wood paneled walls, a garden, a wood stove, an office of your own.
D. Two books, published under your name. Real books, on the shelf in the library where you grew up and were alive between the stacks.
E. But most importantly this:

You will meet your soulmate the day they put a wrinkly bundle in your arms. She is born in your bed and she smells like the inside of your body, which smells like flowers. You will love breastfeeding even more than you love sex. Her hair is curly and soft and she giggles like nobody's business. One day she will stand in front of you, hand held out, and say "walk, Mommy?" and you will gladly walk anywhere, her hand nestled in your hand.

There is so much beauty and joy in the world. There is so much love. You are now twice sixteen, and your life is better for it.

previous next

twice sixteen - 14 January, 2016
Hey--what's going on? - 11 April, 2008
I wasn't cool - 30 July, 2004
something you wouldn't believe if you saw it. - 11 May, 2004
Going to 17th and U - 27 April, 2004

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