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I forgot to ring-in my one-year New York anniversary. It was Sunday. I did it up on Sunday, don't get me wrong: celebrated my best friend's birthday in Prospect Park with leftover cupcakes and a bottle of sparkling cider; went to an open house (4th floor walk up, too dark); cleaned my apartment (FEELS SO GOOD); ate my favourite spicy basil noodles with a bottle of rose; walked to Ample Hills with the roommates for a cone of salted crack caramel (HOLY HOLY); watched the season premiere of True Blood (someone needs to tell me to stop watching that show). But at no point did I stop and raise a glass to myself and stare out at the skyline and reflect on what this past year has meant to me.

Which seems to actually be a very fitting way to celebrate a year of New York living: a mess of frantic activity, holding the wild threads together in any way you can, forgetting to pause and notice what's around you.

This morning on the subway a guy was singing along to "Moves Like Jagger" (is that what that song is called?) on his iPod at the TOP OF HIS FUCKING LUNGS, so terribly, and dancing with his whole body in the aisle. He was doing it with joy. And instead of being annoyed, everyone on the train smiled and laughed and made eye contact and applauded.

I live in New York. I love it here.