The last day of July.

It could be that it was Saturday - one directly in the heart of summer, devoid of any real obligation.

It could be the fact that the oppressive heat of weekends prior miraculously lifted, leaving us with a perfect 80 degree day with a gentle breeze and only a random, wispy suggestion of a cloud that would disintegrate before we could even give it mention.

It could be that we rode a motorcycle, sure, but more so the significance of this fact. Given its recent absence due to an accident that could have ended tragically, it is now somehow more precious, and branded with a reminder that precaution is never wasted on young, jubilant lives that lack nothing except a guarantee for the future. As we glided, smooth as silk from Manhattan to Queens to Long Island to the shore and back again, at moments along a mere strip of land nestled between the Ocean and the Sound, we were free and awake and as alive as possible.

It could be the beach itself. It has an innate ability to, in spite of crowds, capture people in their realest state, allowing them to temporarily abandon their own physical, professional or personal responsibilities and be captivated by something greater than ourselves. The salty air cooled our sun-soaked skin, deprived for months each year under layers of cotton and wool; the warmth of the sand radiated beneath us; the symphony of seagulls and laughing children and crashing waves serenaded us. The transformative power this environment is undeniable.

It could be the combination of all the above.

But I can't help but think that, as perfect as every detail seemed, as brilliant a combination of circumstances as it, admittedly, was - it was much more. It is much more. In spite of time or location or circumstance - in spite of background music or weather pattern or mode of transportation. In spite of candlelight or sunlight, winter or summer, Tuesday morning or Saturday afternoon, there is some greater unifying factor.

And though it is a defining factor - I can't define it.

And I don't think I need to.

"I've been through this."

There’s a strange sense of comfort and accomplishment that accompanies the ability to utter those words when faced with one of life’s many unprecedented hurdles.

Over the course of 23 years of being chronic worrier, I’m prepared to identify my mortal enemy: the unknown. What’s better? I know I’m not alone.

What do we do when faced with the possibility of a past struggle resurfacing – and the realization that though we have won the battle, or perhaps several, we have yet to win the war?

We keep fighting, with the confidence that we know how to. With the conviction that the odds are in our favor. With the gratitude that our battles are fewer and farther between than most. With the knowledge that the war will be won, and it’s simply a matter of when.

And with the optimism that maybe the unknown isn’t something to fear.

A Confession.

My reticence to post in recent weeks - okay, months - can only be attributed to the fact that I find myself, well, speechless. Amid all the richness of life, my vocabulary has failed to do it justice.

I have been teetering precariously on the edge of contentedness for months now, and it seems that, as I embark on a full-time job, leaps and bounds closer to the independence I demand for myself, with a family whose health and fundamental happiness seem startlingly in tact, a circle of brilliant loyal friends, and a relationship that continues to redefine my standards for happiness on a daily basis, all amid the youth of summer in the most ridiculously phenomenal, inspirational 22 square-mile piece of the universe - I have blissfully fallen off the edge and into that terrifying, thrilling void of what happens next.

Needless to say, run-on sentences don't do it justice.

I turn to a Stoppard quote courtesy of a coworker who I admire immensely:

"Words are sacred. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little."

Jeez Tom, no pressure. But it has dawned on me that I need to pay tribute to my current circumstances in writing, to immortalize them so that I may turn to them in the future. As a reminder that this kind of happiness is always out there, lingering in the atmosphere, waiting for that moment when find ourselves ready to breathe it in. As a reminder that I've achieved it, regardless of whether it lasts a season or a year or until the day I die.

That's more than many people can claim in their entire time on this planet.

So here's to working for an organization that feels like a family - a family who has taken a leap of faith in me and given me the opportunity of a lifetime. Here's to a mother who I admire and respect so greatly it moves me to tears to tell her. Here's to a father who has a warmth and kindness in his soul that seems to transcend humanity. Here's to a brother who is so brilliant that I can't help but worry that the world will never give him the credit he deserves, but know he will land on his feet anyway. Here's to a future sister-in-law who is a woman of intelligence, grace, and humility and the perfect match for my brother. Here's to my best friend since childhood, a woman of unwavering loyalty and sense of humor, and an inspiration to any writer. Here's to the man I had thought only existed in my dreams, who loves me just the way I am and tells me in every way he can, at any moment he can, and who serves as a constant reminder that I can do anything, and that it's more worth doing when he's by my side. Here's to health. Here's to intelligence. Here's to happiness. The kind of happiness that makes you want to nudge the world a little.

I realize this is a somewhat self-indulgent proclamation of gratitude, particularly in a world of war, poverty, racism, environmental crisis. But I've devoted tears of joy and sighs and laughter and greeting cards and meals and skipped heartbeats and long runs and songs played on repeat to savoring this feeling. If I could paint a picture or compose a symphony of the caliber it deserves, believe me, I would. How could I call myself a writer and not attempt, however clumsily, to capture it?

The only certainty is the present moment. And in this living, breathing moment, consider me shouting from the proverbial mountaintops that a I am living in every sense I know how.

This commitment to life in the moment makes the idea of what's next a lot more promising.

Too much of a good thing?

I was raised in an extremely open, liberal household, by professional artists. I have made my life and career in the world of theater, a community in which homosexuals likely represent the majority. I live in New York City, a melting pot not only of cultures but of lifestyles and sexualities. Finally, I have gay family members and friends who I love regardless of, and irrelevant to, their sexual preference.

But along with any signifcant and necessary social rights movement comes a backlash of unnecessary hype.

I couldn't remain quiet when noticed the amount of attention being drawn toward one Newsweek article expressing the author's opinion about openly gay actors playing straight.

Glaring typo aside (ten bucks if you can find it) - the author posed strong opinions on historically controversial topic, and for that, I commend him. I don't agree with everything he says, and I certainly don't agree that Sean Hayes' sexuality posed any significant hindrance to his portrayal of a straight man in Promises, Promises. I also don't agree that the author of said article, however poorly written or uninformed, was even remotely in the wrong.

In not surprisingly dramatic fashion, Hayes' co-star Kristen Chenoweth (love her as I do) got her panties in a twist and fired a letter in response to the article essentially accusing the author of being homophobic, ignorant, intolerant, and a big old meanie-head.

As a petite blonde with a solid High C, I empathize with Ms. Chenoweth's protective impulse. It's almost a gut reaction to jump on anyone who would attack a fellow artist, more so if said artist is in a social minority that, in our industry, represents the majority.

But the subsequent hype - the number of publications that have picked up Chenoweth's response - the social media frenzy that inevitably erupts whenever there is a bandwagon to jump on - is completely outrageous. I happen to agree, as would most seasoned theater critics, that there are oftentimes qualities in an actor that are stronger than the character they play. We as audience members are afforded the opportunity to overlook the literal time, place, and circumstance in order to embrace the one presented before us. The fact that for decades people have erupted into song and perfect harmony in another wise normal situation is something that, while we logically know is unrealistic, we embrace and celebrate in the beloved genre of American Musical Theater. In specific pieces we are even encouraged to overlook the actor's race or gender in favor of their talent, the character, and the piece.

Theater is about the suspension of reality. It gives the audience the benefit of the doubt - that they have the intelligence to know that, while what they are seeing before them is most obviously not real - they are entitled to believe so, at least for the moment. It's the art of make-believe - not precision, accuracy, and literal interpretation. When did we forget this?

I truly believe that gay actors should be just as subject to criticisms about the apparence of their sexuality as I am subject to criticism about my appearance, ethnicity, height and weight - all factors in nearly any role for which I have ever auditioned.

Did I find Sean Hayes to be a most satisfactory, charming, endearing and entertaining 2010 response to Jerry Orbach's role in the original production of Promises, Promises? Certainly. His performance was commendable and his nomination deserved. Did I find there to be an amusing undercurrent of skepticism about his sexuality in the role? Certainly. And, truly, I felt it served the levity of the piece.

The fact that America is a place of differing opinions is what makes it America. This was no hate crime, and even a far cry from homophobic. That some people will take offense is their right. I can only hope that their opinions, however varied, are genuine and their own.

Enlightenment - $9.50

This morning as I hailed a cab on East 79th Street, I carried with me my purse, a plastic bag of Heineken bottles and vanilla vodka that clanked as I slid into the back seat (long story), and an exquisite bouquet of aromatic spring flowers.

I carried with me reluctant anticipation of my morning run, happy that I had the time for it and unsure if I had the energy, but knowing I would try anyway. I carried a mental checklist of daily responsibilities, brewing excitement for upcoming events, and a tightly wound ball of love and concern for the special people in my life.

No sooner did my driver compliment me on the flowers than he launched into a sermon of his personal beliefs.

"Oh God, one of these," I thought to myself, hoping that cross-town traffic would be light. A few sentences in, though, I realized this was no fundamentalist tirade or nonsensical stream of consciousness. It was an honest attempt to share with me the basic, yet frequently ignored tools of personal enlightenment.

It started with philosophies and suggestions I've heard before. Find your strength within. Know thyself. If you spend life trying to win the rat race, even if you win, you're still merely a rat. Too many people succumb to spending their lives in search of success and once it is found, they have lost their soul. Inner truth, personal enlightenment.

And I didn't even mind him pushing his religious agenda on me since it was a religion in which I actually have an academic interest.

Half-knowing how naïve I sounded, I smiled and innocently inquired “Are you talking about Buddhism?”

“VERY GOOD!” he applauded, and I mentally patted myself on the back for being moderately well-read on the subject. This pride, this sense of accomplishment, however, was precisely that which he was arguing against.

"But it's so much more than that. Let me ask you a question: What is the fundamental problem with human nature?"

I didn’t know.

"Answer me this: what is our purpose for being on this planet?"

I considered saying something pithy- like, to love one another, to create something that lasts longer than we do.
Instead I said “I. Have. No. Idea.”

"And that is the problem."

He then persevered through broken English,

"We try to give our existence meaning through the material world, through accomplishments and education. Through money. We need to define our purpose for living through tangible successes. We define it with churches and gods, schools of belief that are limiting and render us untrue to our inner selves. The truth lies not in Lord Jesus, or Buddha - it is not written in the Bible or Koran or Bhagavad Ghadi. It can only be found within yourself. And once you know yourself, once you achieve that enlightenment, you can share it. You MUST share it. You must awaken the heart and soul of others. Share the knowledge, share the love. Devote yourself to selfless service. When you feed the birds on the street, you're feeding the creative power."

A hint of Zen, sure, but this had nothing to do with religion at all.

As we wove our way to the western edge of Central Park, I found myself wishing traffic would slow down.

He continued talking for the rest of the drive - pearls of wisdom pouring out at such a rate I couldn't re-articulate them if I tried.

His advice wasn't anything I hadn't heard before in some shape or form. What moved me about this was pure circumstance - the unexpected and rare gift of human connection and shared wisdom for no other reason that the fact that we are alive, breathing, and for the next 15 minutes or so - sharing this confined space. Let's learn from it.

"You are my sister," he said. "You are a child of the universe."

"Of course." I said. I smiled. "Thank you," he said.

"Right or left side?" Hello, reality. As I swiped my credit card payment, complete with 20% tip, he continued to implore me to search inside myself. And when I find it, whatever it may be...share it. Share it with my boyfriend who bought me the beautiful flowers that sparked the conversation to begin with. Share it with the people you love and the people you don't understand. It's universal and it's good and nobody can argue with that.

Because everyone, at the end of the day, has to answer to themselves.

And she's back.

As I had hoped, the weekend in Connecticut was precisely what I needed to feel completely like my old self again.

Of course, credit is also owed to the phenomenal weather (showing no end in sight), the fact that my parents are back from the West Coast and my brother is blissfully planning his nuptials with a woman I adore, the Yankees' more-than-respectable showing in spite of their loss at Fenway's opening day yesterday (and the rapidly approaching opening at the House That Deej Built), and the fact that I'll be in Spain in exactly one month with the man I love. Credit where credit is due, friends.

But there is something about good old Wilton, CT...about cruising through the twists and turns of back roads you could swear were hundreds of miles from any city...about jogging a path that showcases the three schools I attended between the ages of 10-18...about being in my car with the windows down, flipping back and forth between z100 (and the same old morning show I listened to day after day throughout my entire adolescence) and 95.9 (better known as the station that made me fall in love with classic rock)...about kicking back with wine and friends under the strangely incomparable security of our parents' houses...about singing in the church that cured my stage fright...about hilarity-inducing reflection on the early days of the internet over belated corned beef at dining table that has seen so many holiday dinners...

It's impossible not to become swept up in a sea of sense memories, almost all of which awaken a sense of comfort, consistency, and overwhelming gratitude for the fact that some things will indeed never change.

Good Friday, Now That You Mention It...

Don't worry about things that haven't happened yet.

A simple yet invaluable pearl of wisdom - and one I have received more times than I can count. Be it from a friend, family, lover or stranger, it lands with varying degrees of impact and at times I swear on my very existence I'll never need to hear it again.

And, without fail, I'll feel the words wash over me again, as if for the first time.

In New York City, we are perpetually surrounded by people tormented by addictive lifestyles. Unable to relinquish the habits that imprison them. Their vices range from alcohol to sex to dieting to working to coffee to exercise to money to everything in between. And the lesson that seems to continually fall on deaf ears is that any thing - even that with the best intention - can be done to unnecessary excess.

As a genuine Libra, I pride myself on a delicate balance of life - work and play, comedy and drama, business and art, chocolate and salad, family and friends...it's an obvious and deliberate part of how I choose to live.

But like any addict - any habitual user of anything - I use all of the good I do, all of the well-meaning effort as justification for my sinful behavior. To award myself a sense of entitlement for my bad habit.

And, just like everything else, it's a habit that's hurting me first and foremost, with the people I love most deeply running a close second.

-

A necessary distinction to be made is that my worrying by no means renders me unhappy. If anything, it is the price I choose to pay for happiness - the lingering 'what if' question than can be applied universally as if to acknowledge that, yes, life is so fucking great - because xyz hasn't happened yet.

But what about deleting the 'yet' - three innocent letters loaded with implications. What about, without abandoning responsibilities, liberating myself from the minor potential that things will go wrong? Enough is enough.

Aside from biting my nails and diet soda, I've never failed to conquer a demon. Some times it's just a little more overdue than others.

Re-Entering the Void

The approaching weekend (I use the term loosely as today is still tragically Tuesday) has served as a beacon of hope and strength for me for over a month now. Unfortunately, I have concluded that the universe wants the preceding week to be as unbearable as possible in order to ensure my appreciation.

But complaining about the comically varied incidents that have led to this conclusion would just add unnecessary insult to injury. So I will try to condense it into one, concise, unrelenting dilemma.

Where do I belong?

I have blessings in spades. Complaining about any part of my life, at this point, is just asking for the karmic pendulum to swing in the opposite direction and restore the balance. I'm not that stupid. But I am...confused. In flux. I sort of feel as if my wheels are spinning while I continue to go nowhere.

And I refuse to settle. The same reason I was single for the first 22 years of my life is the reason I find myself yet again teetering on the edge of professional blankness - more qualified, for sure - but nameless, homeless, and directionless. That I am capable is far from the question. I want to do what I want. And because I have played my cards right, lead a morally commendable existence, given of of myself - paid my dues, if you will - for so long at this point, I feel as deserving of a job I love. This is a rare confession for the girl who has trouble seeing herself as deserving of the many fortunate twists that brought her here in the first place.

So maybe that's the first neccessary step. Here's hoping.

Cheers to health.

Today is the first day this week - or dare I say, in over a week - that I have not been in some physical pain. Excuse the apparent melodrama - but it is a fact - I have done a lot of pain-inducing activities, been teetering on the edge of sickness, and had a nasty (but not uncommon) pinched nerve in my neck.

Unfortunately I'm no stranger to long-term bouts of pain (never utterly incapacitating but at times intolerable). But I have been recovered for a few years now, and it is amazing how quickly we forget our greatest trials, and revert to taking life's most basic necessities for granted.

So here's to today's absence of pain, an unbelievably freeing, essential gift. And a reticent 'thank you' to the universe, as well, for the unwelcome yet necessary reminder of lucky I am to be young, well, and alive.

I don't care if the train runs late, if the checks don't clear, if the house blows down..

I'll be off where the weeds run wild,
Where the seeds fall far from this earth-bound town.
And I'll start to soar,
Watch me rain 'til I pour.
Catch a ship that'll sail me astray
Get caught in the wind, I'll just have to obey
Til I'm flying away...
-Craig Carnelia


They say that Saturday’s earthquake in Chile has altered the Earth’s distribution of mass ever so slightly, speeding up its rotation and thus decreasing the length of every day by some minute fraction of a second.

The latter part – the shortening of days bit – is inconsequential in magnitude. Besides, if you are like me and subscribe to the belief that time is purely relative, the claim that days have shortened smacks of scientific propaganda. But the notion that the entire world in which we live has forever changed a singular incident, in a singular country, on a singular continent is unnerving, to say the least.

This whole real-life manifestation of the Butterfly Effect is jarring enough – without inevitable consequence of applying it to our own lives.

If I had taken one step, uttered one sentence, formulated one thought differently- could it really have resulted in an outcome entirely different from the one I am currently living?

My answer is Yes. And the only way to cope with this devastating theory is to employ the ‘ignorance is bliss’ mentality – to plunge ahead with the comfort that we would never know the difference. Maybe life would be exponentially better. Maybe I’d be dead.

My life has been a bit off-kilter in the last week; a head-cold, a myriad of aches and pains, and a lingering sense of uneasiness have forced me to question what has thrown my own world slightly off its axis. Changes are occurring. They may be both good and necessary, but they’re still changes – and attention must be paid. Cruising through them without proper recognition could potentially backfire.

So with that I raise a glass to the express train instead of the local, stairs instead of elevators, March instead of February, a new home, a family who remains 3000 miles away, an ever-changing career path. An ever-changing sense of self.

It’s hard, and weird, and terrifying. Not in theory, not hypothetically, and not by some inconsequential fraction of a percent. In reality.

I don't know, maybe I'm just a fool.
I should keep to the ground, I should stay where I'm at.
Maybe everyone has hunger like this-
and the hunger will pass-
but I cant think like that...

I am, therefore I blog.

This weekend, I lived New York City.

On Thursday night, the city caught me in a moment of vulnerability and turned my should-be 15-minute journey home into an hour long, cold and snowy mess. On Friday morning, I opened my front door to nearly 2 feet of snow piled atop the cars parked along west 91st street, which had been shoveled haphazardly by someone who presumed that, given the amount of snow continuing to fall, their efforts were futile. I begrudgingly plodded to work in a snow-day outfit not suited for the Fashion District.

Friday didn't get better for some time. The cable guy didn't show because, evidently, the idea of working during a snowstorm like the rest of us (or calling to notify me that he wasn't coming) proved too much for him. More enraging still is the fact that I will be without cable for another two weeks - a fact that infuriates me only on principle, as I am gleefully stealing internet at the moment, have the entire series of Sex and the City on DVD, and frankly don't have much of an interest in television these days. Still, the mere notion that I am at the mercy of Time Warner's total absence of customer service gets under my skin more than I should admit.

Fortunately, thanks to a handsome and strapping shoulder to cry on (and one who eagerly ventured to pick up a pizza when delivery was, let's face it, not a likely option), Friday did turn around eventually. A healthy dose of perspective and some spectacular moments thrown in there and, before I knew it, the weekend had been restored.

Saturday, I took a Krav Maga Women's Self Defense Seminar in Chelsea with (and at the recommendation of) my personal New York City guru (and bff), Alyssa Galella. For those of you like myself who thought that Krav Maga was simply the pseudonym of some hippie who gets paid to show women how to kick ass in her Chelsea-based studio, let's turn to wikipedia:

Krav Maga (pronounced /ˌkrɑːv məˈɡɑː/; Hebrew: קרב מגע‎, IPA: [ˈkʁav maˈɡa], lit. "contact combat" or "close combat") is an eclectic hand-to-hand combat system developed in Israel which involves wrestling, grappling and striking techniques. Krav Maga is also known as Israeli jiu jitsu, its philosophy emphasizes threat neutralization, simultaneous defensive and offensive maneuvers, and aggression. Krav Maga is used by the IDF Special Forces units and several closely related variations have been developed and adopted by law enforcement, Mossad, Shin Bet, FBI, SWAT units of the NYPD[5] and United States special operations forces.

If that isn't hardcore enough for you, try to pack as much of this little practice into a 2 hour seminar as possible, including a boot-camp style workout in the top 30 minutes that deemed my decision to go sans-sports bra completely insane. Add to that starting pilates classes this week, joining the gym, and moving into a 5th floor walk-up, and lets just say I'm cursing muscles I didn't even know existed. Still, the seminar provided a tremendous release and sense of empowerment that came perfectly on cue.

Saturday night brought a mind-fuck (in the best possible way) presentation at the Hayden Planetarium entitled Sonic Vision - a 30 minute roller coaster of images and music that makes you wish that LSD were legal, cheap, and had no potentially devastating long-term psychological effects. Until that's the case, I highly recommend this little $15 trip ($12 if you can snag a discount) as a way to kick off a night of stuff that won't be nearly as cool.

Our subsequent 'stuff' was sufficiently cool, though. A concert in Brooklyn, with at least two friends planning on attending, was enough to lure me and the beau to Park Slope - much, MUCH uncharted territory - to a gem of a venue called Union Hall - a bar in one of these converted warehouses that reminds us Manhattanites what breathing room feels like. With two Bocce courts awkwardly/endearingly situated front and center in the main room, and a cozy concert hall nestled in the basement, the place has an identity all its own and I think we were all too charmed by it to worry about the inevitable $40 cab ride back to the Upper West Side.

Sunday was, in short, a dream, and filled as it should be with coffee-drinking and Upper West Side exploring with a very special man, running into a beloved old neighbor on the street, and living fully, on my time, and my terms, without guilt or obligation.

It is this kind of life-filled life that had led to my waning frequency of blog posts as of late. But I'm rededicating myself, because life has never been more worth documenting. And we all know I'm not much for cameras.

Just like that.

It is the ailment of the overachiever to be constantly racing to catch up with oneself. For this reason, I often unconsciously sell myself short, deny myself credit where credit is due because of any perceptible difference between my reality and my outlandish expectations.

Case in point: I graduated from college one year and 7 months ago, almost to the day. Yet ingrained in my mind is the inaccuracy that I have been out of school 2 years and counting. An insignificant difference in the grand scheme, perhaps, but in the that crucial 2-year post-graduate window of self discovery, five months is fairly substantial - nearly 25% of it, in fact.

Right now I am absorbing the shock of a 30 hour period that was, in ways, life changing. Yesterday at approximately 1pm I found the apartment I had been dreaming of since I first took residence in Manhattan one year and seven months ago. This dream apartment would grant me a sense of independence and maturity that I simply have not been able to achieve under the watchful eyes of a building my parents virtually hand-picked and provided for me - one so luxurious that rarely did a day pass that I didn't find it exorbitant, far exceeding the needs of someone like me - a young, capable and practical woman who cherishes privacy and is tormented by waste.

Today, at 7pm, I signed a lease.

Perhaps not the largest of milestones, but still a significant one - one that will shape at least the next year of my life and, consequently, those to come. One that will not sever, but at least loosen the ties that I have never lived without. And this decision is in no part an effort toward nobility; I am well aware that my circumstances still place me in just about the highest bracket of good fortune for someone my age, particularly taking into account the ratio of parental support (emotional and financial) to personal freedom. My parents are not nosy, commandeering, or nitpicky. They love, respect, and celebrate who I am in every way they know how. They are simply generous and devoted. And I am finally in a place where I feel like I can start to shed the layers of self-imposed guilt and learn to accept it, with unending gratitude and the ambition to move forward with fervor and integrity.

If I can do that in 30 hours, what can't I do in five months?

In the last eight months, I have reconnected with and been adopted into a theatrical family without whom I cannot imagine my life. I started working at Primary Stages only three-quarters of a year ago, and yet I feel as if I have never known my life without them. An artistic nucleus that represents to me such quality, consistency, humility and bravery as I have ever seen, run by a family of people who love and respect their work but never let it come before the people who make it happen.

A professional identity, artistic purpose, and daily incentive to work as hard as I can - in eight months? I'll take it.

In the last three months I have embarked on a new relationship, the details of which are too significant - too personal - to discuss here. Suffice it to say, three months is far less than five, and still more than enough for life to kick you in the back of the knees and show you who's boss - in the best way imaginable.

So what was missing in that first eight, even nine months or so after college that forced me to keep treading water, scrambling just to keep afloat emotionally as I tried to figure out even one reason to wake up in the morning? Now the reasons are so abundant and apparent, I can barely get my shoes on before I'm out the door.

For the first time since the staggering halt that followed graduation, I'm getting my momentum back. My adult momentum...and not the kind I had in college or high school, branded with an expiration date. This time, it doesn't have to stop.

And I vow not to shortchange myself five months or even 30 hours. Life is waiting, in spurts and stumbles and failures and triumphs, just around the corner. Maybe it's a job, maybe it's a boyfriend, maybe it's an apartment. Maybe it's your parents or maybe it's just a good book or the right song. The shape it takes is irrelevant, as long as, at the opportune moments, it reminds you that you deserve nothing less than all of you dreams coming true. The rest is up to you. The rest is up to me.