I kissed a boy

Well, not a boy: it was not a Michael Jackson moment for me. My first kiss of the New Year came from a gay man (just on the cheek, although now I think I could’ve gotten more if I had asked for it). This was a nice change of pace for me, since my first kiss of the New Year usually comes from my mother. Instead of going to mom and dad’s house, like I always do, and hating every moment of it, like I always do, I skittered down to Miami to spend the New Year with my friends. I did it because I needed some change in my life, and I realized that if I wanted it, I had to make it happen. Now, change and I have a historically rocky relationship. I like things the way they are, even when I am a miserable blob of self-loathing, because it is familiar and, well, comfortable (comfortable in the sense of being able to predict what is going to happen, not in the sense of “Yay! I love being a miserable blob of self-loathing!”). But while it may have been familiar and comfortable, it was not making me happy. And I have already spent too much of my life being unhappy. So, I was like “fuck it!” I made my choice. My gut-wrenching, nerve-wracking, anxious diarrhea inducing choice. And you know what? It was okay. Maybe next year, I’ll ask for a little Mr. French.