scenes from my last day of 33:
I stayed in bed an extra hour
and read two chapters of the new Ali Hazelwood.
I had therapy this morning
and the wifi was shit.
I walked to a coffee shop
and had a rose latte.
I ate an egg tartine
and journaled, so briefly.
I looked at art on my phone (1, 2, 3, 4)
and walked home.
I was interviewed
and she asked me how I would identify myself, professionally
I answered, “Writer/director,”
and then added, “or auteur, that means author in French.”
I worked on a script revision until I reached the last page
(it needs more work in the morning.)
I used my cell phone hotspot
to look at more art (1, 2, 3) despite my shit wifi.
I forgot to eat dinner
and reheated some chicken noodle soup at 9:30pm.
I washed dishes while my husband baked me a cake
and we listened to a playlist of music curated by friends.
I printed programs for my
piano recital-themed birthday party tomorrow
and marveled at our improved wifi
(for my birthday, my husband fixed the internet.)
That’s love, baby.