1. I wake up with a big white cat and a big white man in my bed.
2. then I eat breakfast and don't throw up.
3. then I go to my job and manage things. Like my employees and my after school program.
4. then I think about going back to school next month and going to therapy next week and how I live in New York mfucking city and how I am not going to die of an eating disorder. And I wear his ring and his pearls and come home to him writing songs about my varient-hued eyes and life is, in general, less the Big Drama I had come to believe it was and more than the disaffected comic book nihilism I had guessed it had to be. And I am happy, and I am okay.
Starting a new blog these days focused on not puking. Since dying of gastric rupture at this point would be a clever cynical ending for a zine or something, but decidedly inconvenient in reality.