Lessons From the Kissing Booth

Seattle and I are still wildly in love, having and going to barbecues and movies and bars, eating cake and swilling champagne, kissing, making new friends, dancing, and falling down. And laughing. At bad jokes and good jokes, faulty tables and hammers, really good stories. Laughing so that my face hurts. Something that I broke is slowly being fixed, straight men are pausing on the street to talk about my shoes, and I ran into a boy that I like and managed to not look like a dope. Much. My friends, who are always very nice people, have been extraordinarily kind and complimentary lately. Some stars somewhere are in a samantha sort of alignment.

And the sad fact is that I badly needed all of this. I needed a breather, a little bit of time where I could stop fighting to be ok because I actually am ok. To feel less like a natural disaster in a dress, damaging whole populations of people with my fingertips. I'm still waiting for fifty-four rugs to be pulled out from under my feet, still wary of everything in the world and touching things infrequently and softly, but the very very important part is that I am happy. Uncomplicatedly and thoroughly, for as long as all of this good fortune decides to stick around.