Another note to my writer self, or “the brown thrift store dress”

This is the hard part, the settling, the re-patterning of a life overwhelming in its shifts.

Hold to the dress, boy. The last one brought you sparklers and a blow job, two new pairs of boots and seven back to back cancans- new love and the wildest art that you’d yet lived, even including the toilet on wheels. That dress brought you grief, great sex, and family, and it still fits.

This new dress is different, yes. The last one tight, short, and black; this one loose, longer, light brown- the same sort of sweat-prone silk the color of a wet fish that you’d joked only a washed-up queen would wear. Well, here it is. You’re 20 lbs heavier, your health is shit, and your face shows every sleepless night of the last 4 years.

Chainsmoke while wearing that shit, come all over the hem, blow smoke and feathers and dig your stilletos in the dessert with your new belly ringed and dancing solo around you. This is not just aging but also wisdom,and there is more art coming on a fiercer and wilder wind than you’d yet imagined. I promise that.

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