My little old Italian grandmother from Brooklyn said that this was going to be a good year. She is not a fan of any years that end in an odd number; like '06, '94, etc were all good years... '01? 95? not so much. I can't determine whether or not I think its a kick ass year quite yet, but I do know that things are changing everyday and in ways I didn't think feasible.
Translation? I'm packing up my crash pad and moving home. And painting my room pink.
In the process of cleaning, I shredded every notebook, journal, letter, or whiny teenage poetry I'd ever written. Absolutely everything that any boy has ever given me is gone, shredded and discarded. I'm amazed at what the past decade of my life looks like in bags of trash, having survived two trans-continental moves, middle school, high school, college, personal and national tragedies, and now a crazy career with even crazier people a part of my past ten years. Its all gone now, and I feel better.
SMH, ALB, SEM, MAM - I love you guys.