This One's Called: Some Words, Some Flowers

Happy Birthday Kate, I miss you.

I approach novelty with electric intensity. I’m starting a public substack! I’m going to start reading a book a week again for inspiration! Then I immediately took a five month posting hiatus due to all of the other silly little things I was attempting to take on (becoming a pilates princess, learning Japanese, art classes, reconnecting with my social life). That, and my paralyzing fear of being intimately perceived. My close friends know how hard it is for me to express vulnerability. It doesn’t exactly align with my bad bitch fantasy. But for some reason, I received more support and encouragement than I ever thought was warranted. I think I’ve evolved a bit. Now some of them have even seen me cry, heard me admit that I’m not okay, and felt me accept a comforting hug without *fully* recoiling. But this one’s scary. Reflecting on my pal Kate.

Protea, Icelandic Poppy, Cala Lily & Orchid

Grief has been disorienting. It’s confusing to instinctively type a text to a number that can’t respond. To freeze, mid-forwarding something painfully stupid on the internet that only we would find funny, realizing you won’t see it. Knocked off balance when I see someone from behind with blonde hair and an unconventional coat. NYC is still wearing Glossier You (there’s two new versions now) so I’m constantly suppressing my visceral reaction when I smell you walk by. Still fighting the dull sensation of guilt when I feel happy, or when I’m having experiences you were supposed to have too. Losing you changed me. I retreated inward. But I’ve been slowly reassimilating and accessing the color I forgot I had, that you always recognized. Since day one of our friendship, you encouraged me to share my weird, share my love of baking, share the poems I refused to let anyone else see. You brought the creativity (and chaos) out in anyone lucky enough to be your friend. You and your beautiful flowers. Now flowers are poetry to me.

Pincushion, Dahlia & Prince Plume

Every week I try to make an arrangement for you. Sometimes it’s insane and bright and loud and extravagant (but nothing like your inimitable art). Whoever’s working at the flower shop always asks “what’s the occasion?”And still doesn’t understand that the occasion, is just another Sunday. I add too many greens that I know you’d hate, making a fluffy, kooky creature. Sometimes its overflowing and unbalanced. Zany and abstract. Pieced together without a plan, just instinct and emotion choosing each stem. Sometimes, I love them so much that they bring me to tears. When I’m carrying them home and they’re tickling my face. When they’re sticking out in every direction and blocking my sight. When they’re too hard to hold so I can’t unlock my door and I’m dropping my keys. Those are my favorite.

Allium, Ranunculus & Anthurium

Sometimes it’s not a bouquet. Just stems. The weirder the better. Our words to live by. For everything. Separated into different vases (I mean “vessels”) that you haphazardly collected. The light blue one shaped like a coin or the dark blue organic shape I was supposed to give back but decided to conveniently forget. The only objects that I’m scared to lose. Well, those. And our friendship bracelet. I check constantly to make sure it’s still there because it’s so delicate and fragile. It defies all logic that it hasn’t fallen off, four years after being zapped on and never leaving my wrist. The constant reminder of the fun (and shopping addiction) we shared. When it inevitably breaks, it’s comforting knowing the first thing you’d say is “time to shop.” The second, to upgrade it and throw in a diamond or two. Don’t worry, you know I will.

Dried Roses & Disco Ball

And then there’s the (dried) arrangement from your celebration of life. When I moved apartments, it rode in the uber with me and Zeppy. Only the most precious cargo. It was too painful to live down the street, knowing you’d never throw down Twin Snakes from your window again. To live in the same neighborhood where we walked to work together every morning, always stopping to get cortados and cause a scene. I moved again. It’s a long story. I keep collecting life vignettes that I need to tell you, but can’t. I’m still looking for places to put them. There’s so much less laughter in my new world. You’re the funniest person I’ve ever met and I’m still chasing the euphoria of laughing together. High on how dangerously far we could take a bit. On how long we could play the silent game. On how many times we could play a song on repeat in public to inflict mental torture on innocent bystanders. On the fact that we threw parties based on the theme “chips” and people still wanted to be our friend. I miss eating Zapp’s with you.

Amaranth, Irish Bells, Handful of Pretty Stragglers

I see parts of you in every new person that becomes a friend. I see you in every single flower and I think I always will. How lucky, because it means I’ll see you wherever I go. Today we’re supposed to be somewhere weird with a disco ball, chugging red wine, staying out too late dancing to Donna Summer and getting late night (CASH ONLY) pizza, with glitter all over our faces. Instead, I got you a slice of birthday cake, the prettiest, petal-iest rose I could find, and I listened to Celebration. I was so lucky to have a friend like you.

Happy Birthday pal.

On the sonos today: The cursed playlist. If somehow you escaped Kate and I talking about our cursed playlist ad nauseam, think of it as a curation of all of the most cursed songs you’ve ever heard. Songs that frequent cursed places like taxis, weddings, cafes in the suburbs, the 2000’s. The playlist is NEVER for listening, it’s for laughing. It’s the perfect expression of our deranged humor. Add a song if you’re a freak too.