Four Words I Never Thought I'd Write Again
Thank you, 2022. You made me deaf, you kicked my ass, you but you also, in your final months, handed me the greatest gift of all: love
In preparation for writing this end-of-year missive, I read through my New Year’s post from last year because why not be a glutton for past-me punishment? In it, I urged everyone to throw away their New Year’s resolutions and just be more French: a goal I try and often fail to live up to, much like—cue the irony police—a resolution. I then took it a step further, listing many of our typical resolutions and explaining how each can also be a burden instead of helpful. “I resolve to find love,” for example, was just silly, I implied. Sure, in the abstract, true love—which I mockingly compared to a delicious plate of pad thai—is a nice goal, but most plates of pad thai are just mediocre. And that’s okay.
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Then, a few months ago, I fell in love. Hard. And it—he—was not a plate of pad thai at all. In fact, I cannot compare this love to anything I’d ever called love or experienced prior. Food or otherwise.
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