Crazy Cat Lady

By the time you read this, I will have turned forty-one. That sounds crazy to me. I don’t see that in the mirror. I don’t feel it in my body. There’s a cognitive dissonance in my super mature, yet child-like psyche. To some this will sound young. To others, old as fuck. All I know is that forty was my best year yet.

And to think… I didn’t think I’d make it past twenty-seven. Or thirty-five. Then thirty-nine… Now I know what a privilege it is to be alive, on Earth, all up in it, sliding around in the muck and mire, weighed down by gravity, heavy burdens, responsibilities, guilt, and fear. Our pasts. Pasta. Gluten allergies.

As a kid, I romanticized dying young. So many of my favorites were in “the twenty-seven club”. When I came out to LA, I just assumed that would be my fate too; a fast rising star who got out before a wrinkle or crease could ever make a dent on my supple skin. I did the things that might ensure this path. I got record deals. I took all the drugs that came with them. An…