I threw myself a birthday party.
My iPhone shattered and I locked myself out of my apartment. I wore silk on silk and rocked it like a grandma in lounge pyjamas. The icing got all over everything. The next day my head felt like it might explode from cheap tequila, my weapon of choice. What I remember: the door continuing to open, and people I love flooding in. The friend who asked me to close my eyes and then placed the flower crown he had made for me on my head - all because I dreamt it, and told him. I remember a moment I stole for myself in the bathroom, when I realized my cat-eyes had smudged across my brow and nose and I thought seriously about hiding in the shower for the rest of the night, arrested by panic and anxiety, knowing in that moment I would probably never throw myself a party again. But then everyone sang my name.
I turned 29 years old. You made me a cake. It's time to stop being so afraid that everyone will leave and never come back.
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