we can't run, but we can go swimming

I think if you met me you probably wouldn't like me.

The truth is, if you met me, I wouldn't even try. It's been over a year since I honestly tried to have a conversation with another person, and I haven't made a new friend in I-don't-know-how-long. At a certain point it was just too tiring; at a certain point I didn't want to keep putting myself out there over and over again, letting strangers trace all my scars just to have an interesting story to tell secondhand to someone else ("oh I knew someone who...").

I rang in the new year with S.'s arm firmly around my shoulder, the surprising pop of champagne bottle's cork and the warmth of being at the exact place you want to be flooding my body despite the chill. That night I dreamt of being offered five choices, and as I made my decision I smiled in my sleep, assured as I was that I had made the right one.

"It's not a perfect plan / But it's the one we've got / Cause I make a living telling people what they want to hear / But I tell you, it's gonna be a champagne year" — "Champagne Year" by St. Vincent, Strange Mercy