Gratitude as the price of admission.

“Its occasion
could be
a spot of sun,
bar sign, label
on jeans,
carnation, red
light where you
wait and
gratitude hits.
or a name
the length
of a subway car
that only makes sense
when you say it aloud
in your head
as it passes.”

Prayer, Lia Purpura. 

I’d like to say thank you.

Thank you, to Camille, for the table and chairs.  The bookshelf that perfectly houses all my books and knick knacks.

Thank you to Kyrie, for giving back all the books I gave to her when I broke with my geography and flung myself into the wind.

Thank you to Shannon, for the armchair I’m currently composing this post in.  For the nightstand and the ottoman and unlimited use of your car.

Thanks, Carlye, for the gold sofa.  It’s been put to use.

Thank you, Patrick, for the bed and frame and sheets.  For putting me up for probably a month and a half total.  For never complaining about the farts and the drunken rants, but gently teasing when necessary.

To Stine, for the lunches and the collaboration. For that trip to CVS.

Thank you, Taylor, for the clothes and for always being down to go get a piercing.

Thank you, Britney, for making New York my home.

Andrea, Rihannon, Fred, Carol, Spencer, Adam, Carli, Matt, Andrew, and everyone else for keeping me alive and safe while I made mistakes and ran amok.

Thank you, Morgan, for being my friend and for buying drinks and cheesing over ladies and wearing jean vests.

Hagan and Jen and Craig and Hannah, thank you for film making with me, and Rhinehaus, and shenanigans.  Thank you for karaoke.

Thank you, Massachusetts, for teaching me how to walk 5 miles with 29.1 pounds on my back at night.

Thank you, Michael Burnham, for telling me I was a writer and not an actor but definitely shouldn’t stop monetizing my craft.

Thank you, CCM, for failing me on all four of my performance boards.  I have learned so much.  How to cry being chief and how to be vulnerable being lasting.  Thank you.

Thanks, December 15th, for bringing Jake Wilhelm out to Northside Tavern on a cold ass night.

Thanks, Becky with the Good Hair, the Italian, 85, my GF, my OGF, for making my summer fun and my stories salacious.

Thank you, everyone who came to my housewarming party, and everyone who’s been housed in my heart for years.  I am alive, truly still here alive, because of you.

Abbi, thank you for saving my life.  For teaching me how to hold my trauma and not let it burn me.

Thank you, Justin Lynch, for always listening (even if you aren’t) and giving me the best advice.  Gently, but with purpose.

Thanks for the books, y’all.  Thanks for the food and the beds, the tupperware and the train passes, the benadryl and the sweatpants, the listening and the coffee and the love.

Thank you.

I have done nothing to deserve you and am humbled.

Thank you.

I love you.  I miss you.  I hope to see you soon.


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