Every year when March rolls around there's an unforeseen glitch, a total fluke of a blessing: a 55-degree day with light winds and low humidity has hit the cement of New York City. With the sun, we each rise brightly, a hint of hope in the air. Today was the day we'd been waiting for, the one we'd been oh-so-patiently pining after for months. And so I, too, woke: a spring in my step, eager to cash in on all those moments in the brutal cold when I'd have to remind myself of all the reasons why I'm Never Moving Back To Los Angeles.
Last March's defrosting was brutal. It purged and cleansed me inside out, scorching and stinging and leaving me raw. This March I look back and I know what's past, what's been loved and what's been lost. I'm older and I'm wiser, feverishly battling the hurdles and pitfalls that so often make us jaded, looking steadfastly in the direction of myself. I am both my own antagonist and my own hero, my own villain and my own muse, longing to hold and be held, to love and to be loved!!!
This March I have no room for people who make me feel small. For careless people with thoughtless thoughts, For the disconcerted and the nonchalant. Apathy and ambivalence bores me. I do not resonate with jealousy or callous insecurity, with shallow perspectives or half-baked hot takes. You do not know the things you speak of, and, in turn, you do not know me.
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