Welcome To My Bed

A year later.

Two very special anniversaries today.

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The first, my only tattoo, a ribcage and spine that I doodled in Maggie's high school art room one Monday last fall while visiting her in Westwood. I have had ink under my skin for a full year now. And because of that accomplishment, I think I am finally ready to get another. There has been enough time spent ruminating.

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The second, and decidedly more important one, is my anniversary with James. I don't think of it as a simple accomplishment. I have made notoriously poor relationship choices in the past, and only once has a relationship made it past this year marker (only by one day; it's a complicated story). I was fifteen at the time. I have an inkling that this time it means a helluva lot more. But removing all romantic implications of this day, I am just happy/thankful/proud to have James around in whatever capacity. We are such close friends, have survived living with each other, living on opposite coasts, me liking Britney Spears, and countless other obstacles.

In honor of these two events, I'd like to toast to permanence and adaptation; may there always be a rock to steady yourself, but may you always be open to erosion, avalanche, volcanic eruption, and earthquake. No matter what, you will still have your rock, as long as you continued to fight to hold on to it.