I feel fresh these days.

I feel exhausted too, but I also feel FRESH, bright, hopeful. My car is being repossessed. Agents everywhere have said no to representing my novel. My dad is slipping gently into the still waters of a premature dementia. Recently he was playing with my daughter and he was loving it, she was too, they were both enjoying themselves. He turned to me, eyes shining, and asked, “Who is this little one?”

I feel amazing.

Exhausted. Don’t get me wrong.

But amazing.

My stories are clean and clear, flowing out of me like I took a giant creative laxative. Editing is a dream. I float down the page, vaping like a fucking chimney, and Santa’s on his way. I’m lying face down on my couch listening to soft christmas jazz. Cookies are wait hold up

Ok. Cookies barely escaped burning. I am So Happy.

When I was newly sober we ended up in an apartment on the top floor. It had a kitchen with a real tile backsplash, as well as a roof deck. You could see the whole city skyline up there, up close and personal. Each sunset lived in a hall of mirrors, and I remember spinning around up there, on video chat with a friend, bellowing “THESE ARE THE PROMISES.”

That, that was dogshit.

Today? Saving the cookies? Being able to finish a fucking project? Facing poverty in the toothy mouth? Being able to fucking handle shit? These. These are the promises.

I’ve made it.