1: Friends. You motherfuckers in your varying circles ranging from "can you grab me some lube if you're going to Rite Aid?" close to "thanks for the add!" distant. East coast, west coast, the big D, the twin cities, sin cities, wherever you are. Without your texting at all hours, your mysterious packages, long Facebook messages, cat pics on my Wall, beautiful works of art, RT-ing my most impassioned Twitter rants, driving my drunk ass home after four martinis too many, listening (or reading) to me ranting about how much I hate someone or nodding understandingly when I insist that I absolutely can't make it to your party because it's on the same day as a Manson show, I don't know where I'd be. Or who.
2: Health. At press time I possess the default number of limbs and organs that come standard in humans. I have no broken bones and my heart is sloughing scar tissue and reclaiming itself as a viable love container. My brain, strange though it is and occasionally faulty or imbalanced, has no serious defects. My body continues to absorb and deflect my attempts to harm it via drinking, drugs, rough sex, dehydration, modifications, eating variously too much of the wrong things (or not enough of the right things, or not enough of anything at all) and late nights that all too frequently turn into early mornings. Sometimes late mornings. Sometimes even the afternoon.
3: Location (location, location). I love New York. I also hate it. I love to hate it. I hate busting my ass on the daily to stay here, but I love having the right to call myself a New Yorker. I hate paying way too much fucking rent for a small amount of space, but I love that the space is my space, it is my home, it is the first home I've really bent and twisted into a bent and twisted thing that feels like home and not a long term hotel. I hate paying over $4 a gallon for gas, but I love not having to drive very often because of the glorious (and once again largely functional) subway system. I hate having to work so hard to just be able to live here, but I love everything the city has to offer. I love the restaurants, the bars, the clubs, the scene that I also love to hate. I love the people. I love to hate the people, I love to be "over" everything the second it becomes hot because I probably saw it months ago at one of Kayvon's parties. I love all the cliche backstabbing vicious little cunts that smile so sweetly to your face. I love paying $1 for the biggest, blandest slice of pizza you've ever seen. This city can be a toxic, barbaric, back alley beatdown. It's going to get you right down on the floor and cockslap you and make you beg for it. It's terrible. Your makeup's going to be an absolute mess afterward but eyeliner and chin smears and dusty knees look fantastic with spiked Litas and leggings. You're on the list anyway, gorgeous. Have another vodka cran! Seriously. I probably sound bitter. I am and I'm not. I'm fucking grateful for every day I have here because it's such an uphill climb just to maintain it. I love this city, the bitch she is.
4: Family. I don't see any of my relatives more than a couple times a year and I miss them. And they seem to miss me. They know me even less than they did now but they still love me, and they're trying to understand this even more distant even more strange person I've become than the distant and strange person they thought they knew. And I appreciate their efforts, and love them all the more because of it. And I'm grateful for that love and the attempting and all of that whole, family, thing.
5: The Universe. It's still looking out for me, still listening, still sending down the line what I need even if it isn't necessarily what I want at the time. I'm learning one hell of a lot about things, increasingly so as I go along, and it's really important to me to state that I'm incredibly grateful for being blessed with things like timing, mysterious insights, warning bells, gut feelings, LUCK (like a motherfucker), foresight, mysterious coincidences, prophetic dreams, hunches, deja vu, everything. The whole gamut of otherworldliness that has worked to and for my benefit. Thank you for that busy highway between us.
6: Marilyn Manson. SURPRIIIIIISE. The first rule of Marilyn Manson club is that you don't talk about Marilyn Manson club. He who talks least lives longest. So I'll just smile, and nod, and move on to
7: You. He who needs not be named and cannot be described but needs to be listed. I can't even. I mean. Really. Just, the whole. Yeah. Everything, all of it, and so much more than just that but beyond that because we can't decide what's encompassed by "everything" but I'm sure it's more than what we could know. When I don't say anything I come across far more unfeeling and uncaring and stoic than I would ever want to be but when I try to broach the subject of how much you mean to me or to scratch the surface of the way I feel I fail utterly, miserably, and I'm reduced to blithering idiocy. False starts, trailing off, flappy-handed gestures to try to bridge an unbridgeable gap between my words and my feels. There aren't words, at least not in English. The only way I can communicate it is with a language you've only started to teach me and I hope that someday I'll be able to explain myself better. But until then, it's just a big red scribble followed by three or four italicized exclamation points. And the paper ripped. And now there's red pen on whatever was sitting underneath it, and I hope it wasn't important but even if it was, it probably wasn't as important as me trying to pass a mental kidney stone that rhymes with I-love-you. Annnnd I'm babbling.
8: I'm grateful that I'm starting to notice when I'm babbling and am finally learning when to shut the fuck up.
fkn srs guiz srsly doan laf