I know of what I speak like the white stuff I did for the first time last year on RJ’s rooftop party before I saw the man of my dreams and we watched fireworks from his roof and he made hamburgers and toasted my bun. I remember the fourth of July party my mom’s friends threw at the building in Delray and I sat alone on the cushioned longue chair outside while the sun was going down and waited for A to call me back but he didn't. I took pictures of myself in the mirror with no one to send them to because A didn't love me.
A holiday makes time feel stretched out, like a day can last forever. Maybe it’s because we remember all the holidays of our lives, each celebratory cake, each firework, and compare them to one another like ex-lovers, trying to figure out if we’ve learned anything, if we now understand how to properly throw a party, be a good guest, or just show up to our own lives and the festivities that they require.
I think about all the people I’ve disappointed. I think about all the times I could have been nicer, could have enjoyed myself. On the roof that day, we the high as Georgia pines with gummy bears and Swedish fish and Cheeto puffs and Screwdrivers, felt higher than the fourteenth floor and the girls we met at the dollar store followed us up, up, up and out of the blue my man called me to tell me he was playing golf but he would be by in an hour so I absconded back to my own accommodations post haste. It’s very strange living this way, in my haphazard spontaneity. In the Lyft, driving through the mountains back towards North Hollywood, back to the apartment where I walked around until he came because I couldn’t sit still, I had no idea where the money would come from, how I’d survive a week, a month, a year, and all the girls had jobs with paychecks and wore pant suits and had beachy waves and manicured nails and I was trying to write my way out of this world, it was then that I felt like I was in the air, falling.