I skinny-dipped in the Long Island Sound. Ditched the funeral and grieved through karaoke. Cried on the floor of an airport bathroom. Slept on the sofa next to my dad’s recliner for two weeks. I read everything. I careened into new drafts of plays I’ll never show you. Thought I saw my mother in the woman on the flight from Providence to Miami who shared wine with me and pretended not to see my runny nose.

I'm changing now. I’m going to pray better. Eat spicier food cause it makes me feel more in touch with my body. I’m going to road-trip from Georgia to Rhode Island with my boyfriend. And then road trip to California with my dad, which will be really healing for our relationship. Two summers ago I told everyone I was going to dye my hair blue, and I don’t want that to be a lie anymore. I’m going to keep grieving through karaoke (but only invite terrible singers). In the next couple of years I’ll write some really good plays, but I’ll also write a lot of stinkers because I think there’s something holy about failure. I will tell you that I love you, and mean it.

I love you. I mean it.