On some days.

Some days, you wake up and you hate everything. You realize it's still icy out and you parked on the wrong side of the street, which means your door lock is probably iced over. And your back hurts and you haven't gotten a good night's sleep in days.

And then you realize that in a week and a half, you'll be in Amsterdam.

And suddenly the world sucks a little less.

On a conversation about sandwiches.

Me: I am unfamiliar with this 'love' concept. Is it a kind of sandwich?

Pigtails: Yes.

It's a sandwich someone makes for you every day and serves you in bed. It's hard to make, but it's the only sandwich you want- so they make it every day. And it's amazing.

The most amazing sandwich in the world.


Beautiful.

On Christmas decorations.

So here's what my across-the-street neighbors' decorations look like at night. (Blurry as fuck, don't bother clicking on it.)

Cute, right? Now here's what they look like during the day.

Anyone else find this mildly horrifying? I can't be the only one.

On being too old.

Pigtails and I were talking last night about the concept of being too old for something. It's strange; I've been telling myself for the last few years that I'm too old to do this or that, to wear my old leather bracelets or get a new tattoo.

But why?

Fear of societal judgement, of course, always ranks high. No one wants to be the old guy at the club. But what if you still really enjoy getting drunk and sweaty and dancing your face off? Does the fact that you're VP of Marketing automatically mean you have to cut that part of your life out? When do you get too old to bleach your hair out or eat a pile of mushrooms on a Tuesday night?

I'm not going to lie; when I dyed my hair back in August, I was afraid. Afraid my old friends would judge me for doing something I used to do all the damn time in our 20s, afraid the people at work would consider it a pathetic attempt to reclaim my youth. But instead I was presented with grins and compliments, conversations and nods of approval.

I liked who I was back in New York. Sure, I wasn't going anywhere with my life; I was coasting in a dead-end bartending position and spending most of my free time getting drunk and playing pool. But I felt comfortable in that skin, my laugh was easy, my stories vivid and real. I didn't end my time there on my terms; I was shoved forcefully into a painfully adult situation in the desolate reaches of South Jersey. I stopped drinking and going out. I stopped having fun.

And yet I can't regret the intervening years. I tried and failed to run a business. I bought a house and experienced the freedom and responsibility that comes with that. A marriage came and went, teaching me the value of commitment and when to let go of something that's just not working. I've widened my skill range exponentially, making me significantly more valuable in my field.

Now I'm back on my feet, working a job I really like. Cracking jokes and fielding questions, making people feel comfortable and warm in my care. It's reminding me of what I liked about bartending, what I liked about my past self.

So what do I care if I want to dig out the bracelets and blast Less Than Jake in my car? Sure, I want to roll out, pound whiskey, and knock some pool balls around at night, but in the mornings I'm still researching information on starting a food truck. I think it's fair to say can take a step or two back if it gives me a better place to move forward from.

On waking up.

You know that little stretch of time between when you stop sleeping and when you wake up? That little half-sleepy range where you're slightly cogent and kind of dreaming. When you think of tangled limbs and laughter, shadows and comfort and the safety in the absence of light when you're not alone.

At least that's what's in my head more often than not in those magical few minutes. It's what I smile to as my eyes open and I hear Alistair scramble for breakfast, or my phone buzzing on the empty pillow beside me.

On my crazy brain.

I'm going to talk about me for a minute. This post is going to be entirely self-indulgent and more than likely will lead to no conclusion of relevance, to me or otherwise. To be honest, it's more so I can just get these words down and out of my head.

I'm an overthinker. I always have been. Ever since I can remember, every minute of every day, I'm thinking about something. Sure, there are things I can do to slow the train down - working jobs where I have to think on my feet keeps the noise down to a dull roar as I cycle through step after step in my systems. But for the most part, my mind is almost never still.

Which comes in handy, of course. When there is need for it, it kicks into high gear. All afternoon I've been sorting out things in my head about the business I used to run, recalling everything I've learned both there and in culinary school, and evaluating what needs to be different and what needs to be learned in preparation for the next big crazy idea. A lot of pacing, muttering to an empty house. A lot of rolled-back eyes and fluttering eyelids.

But once the words are down and the email's sent, my head's still on fast forward. And without a direction, it spins out of control. I find myself fragile and neurotic, thinking about sandwich architecture one moment and the inevitable death of my beloved pets the next. I think about romance and moving and all the details of my life in between, what I can plan for, what I can steer, what eventualities and possibilities I can prepare for. I pick out names for my children and floorplans for my home.

And in the end, not much has changed. Some of these plans are old, revisitations to thoughts I've had hundreds of times before. Some are new, and join the buzzing hive always sitting in the back of my head. And I settle back on my couch to try to drown it out in television and video games, always afraid, always anxious, and always, always prepared.

On giving thanks.

I am thankful for you.

To those forged to me in blood and whiskey, stoops and attics and trials of the infinitesimal years, who know who I've been and have faith in what I will become, I am thankful for you.

To those who stand with me in the weeds, on the rail, fighting back the hordes with the grinders and the stones and the deadly smiles, I am thankful for you.

To those who taught me the way of the fire, the knife, the pint glass and milk pitcher, the spreadsheets and resource management, I am thankful for you.

To those bound to me with miles of aluminum and fiber optics, who embrace me for eight seconds and love my face, I am thankful for you.

To those of the quiet nights, the healing couch, the clouds of smoke, the wings and television screens, I am thankful for you.

To those of the loud nights, the exuberant pints and rocks glasses, the music and the clicking of billiard balls, the rush of the subway and thunder of sidewalks, I am thankful for you.

And to those who rouse me from my slumber, who take me by the hand and drag me back into the light, I am so, so thankful for you.

I love you. May you see yourselves as I see you, beautiful and bright, worthy of all the love the world can afford. May you find a home in me. When you are hungry, let me nourish you. When you are cold, let me warm you. When you are afraid and empty, let me fill you with your self, strong and confident. What I offer you is vast and powerful, for it is from you, of you, always you.

And let us stride into the black together, eyes ever on the open road. Let us grow together, our stories etched into our skin. Time marches always beautifully on, and let us march on with it. Together.