Twelve Years

I have been living in this city, New York, for twelve years now. This past week marked the occasion. It was April 24, 2003 that I moved to this city with some vague dreams, some more clearly delineated ones, and two big pieces of luggage.

And so it felt like an appropriate week to officially be hired at my job. My freelance job at this agency I really like has transitioned into a salaried copywriter position. It was one of the weeks where I thought to myself, "I've made it. I am making it." After twelve years in this city of floating from job to job, including some of the oddest jobs imaginable, after twelve years of being satisfied with getting by, after twelve years of not utilizing my actual skills, it felt so, so good to get this job offer.

I moved to New York wanting to be a writer. Twelve years later, it's happening. I am now getting paid to write. And, okay, so I'm not getting paid to write the Proustian work of fiction I had hoped to (I don't think anyone's necessarily hiring for that). Instead, I am getting paid to write advertising. The key takeaway from that previous sentence though is that I am getting paid to write. I am getting paid to write. That feels so good to say. That feels so good to live.

This past week, I also started taking PrEP. Not that I am really engaging in much sex lately, but knowing that when I do that it all too often tends to verge into risky behavior, it gives me so much peace of mind to be on this medication. It's another step for me in what feels like this climb toward adulthood.

The nights are cold in New York during this in-between time of landlords having turned off the heat and the start of warm evenings. Luckily I recently bought a new comforter. Come lay with me under it some night. We can keep each other warm and tell stories as we drift off to sleep.