This post contains spoilers for A Star is Born.

There’s one thing that really sticks out to me in the midst of the debate about Baby, it’s Cold Outside , the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer special, and Fairy Tale of New York, is a general lack of willingness. Willingness to even open one’s self to another point of view.

I’m sitting here listening to this guy named Brother Ali, it’s like Spotify knows that I like songs named after actors and gifted me with “Forest Whitaker.” It’s smooth, like a summer afternoon when the sun hides behind the tall buildings downtown and you get a bison taco on banic from the Native Delights truck. The wind shifts and pulls the sweat off your neck, letting you know it’s time for dinner. Fuck I miss Edmonton.

My cane, made from only the finest novelty-grade peppermint, rested safely under my gold and diamond ring. My watch reflected the soft lights above us back in a million different directions, as did my jacket.

The last time I posted on this blog was the last time I felt apart of this world. It’s influenza season, and you know what that means—literally everyone and their mom is sick. Literally. I think I know exactly what let my bug through my (usually) impenetrable defenses, though, and it’s all my fault.

I just had revelation. Girly mugs are the least of the things that I have that would make people’s brows go up. At the moment, I’m sitting at my desk wearing a tank top and a pair of navy leggings with white stripes. Behold:

I couldn’t have been more than thirteen, if that. My friend Tyler and I were inseparable during this summer and one afternoon we found ourselves at his father’s work place. We milled around outside while his dad disappeared indoors; I remember that it was hot, and the bricks of the building magnified the heat from the concrete, baking me alive.