I’m 25 today. A quarter of a century, ¼ of a 100.
I multiply my experiences by four in my head.
And cast a wish for a future full of:

– a steady income stream
– health
– creative flow
– travel (Paris please!)
– good sex

I spent the day in Soho, window shopping with Beatrice. From Edith the Machinist to Opening Ceremony we each compiled a list of all things most coveted. On mine: vintage leather slouchy boots with nailhead studs, a pair of Judy Rosen jeans, a wildly expensive rabbit ring with black diamond eyes. The shop person turned out to be the designer, a soft-spoken ginger with a nice beard and kind eyes. I swooned a little when he slipped it on my finger.

We stopped for lunch at Gitane. My mom sent me $100 for my birthday, so I treated.
I could have, should have, saved it, considering the state of my bank account. But, eh, you only live once.

“Don’t look now, but Marc Jacobs is here with his hot boyfriend.”
I waited 30 seconds, then turned.
He was wearing his signature frames and a vintage Mickey Mouse tee under a tweed jacket, one size too big.
I felt in that moment proud that I was someone who dined at the same places a famous fashion designer did.
I resolve at that moment to get back to my art, start taking pictures again. I say this out loud to Beatrice so that she can bear witness. She agrees to hold me accountable to this.

We spent the rest of the meal rating the staff on a scale of dirty dog to dreamboat. The day was clear and bright, fall’s chill was just beginning to nip. We shared Moroccan spiced olives and oranges accompanied by a bottle of prosecco.
We toasted to my new year and to all the inspiration and soirées on the horizon.