I’m not scared, I promise.

I’m not scared, I promise.

I’m sitting here in my almost-empty NYC apartment (thank God for my sofa, bed, grand piano, and an overpriced chic zebra-striped kettle in the kitchen).

So… it’s giving: New York is basically a walk-in freezer with rent. It’s so cold it feels like the city is actively trying to unalive my motivation. It’s the kind of cold that makes you realize happiness was just a summer hallucination, and I can’t stop the tiny voice at the back of my mind sarcastically asking, “Who sent you work?”

Sigh… my people are currently enjoying Detty December, but as my reputation infamously suggests, I’m a scandalous little rebel who insists she isn’t afraid of risk yet I do enjoy overthinking it. I’m not scared, I promise.

As I sit here in my nobody gets me era, there’s a certain kind of despondent, fatigued feeling surrounding me a lifetime spent proving myself. For as long as I can remember, I’ve fought to be understood. Recently, someone I admire told me: “No one is supposed to understand what you’re doing. If they understand immediately, try again.” I repeat this to myself as I hold my jacket a little tighter while the Hudson wind hits my face. I stare at the skyline, half-heartedly convincing myself: I’m not scared, I promise.

Since I’m such a brave, sexy cat, and with little zeal, I’ve decided I won’t limit myself to the expectations of others. I won’t be content with the flowers handed to me I’ll grow my own garden. I will exist in multitudes. I will unfold endlessly. I will shine in countless numbers, like stars in the galaxy. I’m not scared, I promise.