For my birthday, Morrison got me a bottle of French wine from the year I was born, TWO birthday cakes, and a surprise rendezvous with friends at the Los Feliz bar where I spent a lot of my 30’s writing and drinking and smoking tiny cigarettes and eaves dropping on other peoples’ Tinder dates. The cakes were consumed IMMEDIATELY, the wine we’re saving for a special day, or maybe just any day at all, because I’m realizing that there’s no such thing as a special day, because all days, every single one of them that I’m alive, sometimes with my people, sometimes with Cake, are in fact, special.

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