I swear people able to see the good in their periods must have an easier time at it than me. They must not throw up or pass out or bleed heavily enough to fling blood across the floor reminiscent of an axe murder scene. They must not have erratic cycles, never sure if their next period will start in 20 days or 35 days, never knowing if it'll last 4 days or 10 days. Or maybe they do—maybe when it comes to pain and enduring it, I'm just a coward. More than 300 periods in, though, I know there's nothing good about them; they're punishing and grueling and I'm pissed I'm forbidden to bitch about them to more people.

Spring is springing, for which I am eternally grateful. I enjoy taking walks around my neighborhood, spotting the occasional one-off bunch of flowers or bright green blades of grass shooting up from the cold ground. While above, trees are starting to bud, their naked branches tinged with color and texture promising happier, longer, warmer days ahead. And completing my early spring explorations is the omnipresent choir of birds, boisterous and fervent, heralding the change in season.

Keeping up with the Trump administration’s incessant microaggressions is a Sisyphean task. But people do. And I am eternally grateful for their hardy resolve. Zeteo’s “This Week In Democracy” series, a day-by-day distillation published every Saturday, does a fantastic job at recapping the essential Trumpian chaos you may have caught, missed, or (if you’re like me) deliberately ignored in an effort to not spend the evening hyperventilating on the couch.

I don’t think I’ve ever dreamed about painting or mixing or laying down oils, but I found it very soothing, surrendering to the delicate sounds and smells and colors. When it comes to creating art in my waking life, I enjoy the individual parts much more than the sum itself. The process. The means. There’s a lovely line from Ursula K. Le Guin’s dazzling science fiction novel The Lathe of Heaven—about dreams, realities, and an unusual painting—that goes, “The end justifies the means. But what if there never is an end? All we have is means.”

I met Hoo-dini, a great-horned owl and love-child of Muppets Bert and Statler, at the Woodford Cedar Run Wildlife Refuge in Medford, New Jersey the other day. Perched behind his woody shelter, he bored his lazily blinking eyes into mine. As one of Hoo-dini’s eyelids retracted a bit slower than the other, he was constantly winking at me, the feathery old flirt.

Like the average American, to regain consciousness after sleep and strange dreams, I require coffee first thing in the morning. I can't think of a better way to orient myself than the aroma of fresh grounds, the liquid taste and temperature, the steam that rolls off its filmy surface, warming my skin and temporarily steaming up my glasses.

Apart from being happily married with a partner of 15 years, I really have no business giving relationship advice. But since today happens to be my sort of nine-year wedding anniversary, and since this is my blog, why not?

There’s a lot of evil, conniving shit that goes down in New York City. There’s also a lot of brave, furious pushback from its inhabitants. While the efficacy of said pushback is dubious at best (counterproductive at worst ☹), attend any NYC protest and you’re bound to be met with an overwhelming feeling of solidarity, a shared electric hum of determination and rage. You’ll know you're not alone in your feelings.

I've been sick all week, occupying myself with the miserable activities of the indisposed—breathing steam, hoarding tissues, brewing copious amounts of herbal teas, deciding between uninspiring medicine combinations—it’s all deplorably tedious. Plus, thanks to round-the-clock frowning, my forehead has aged no less than 10 years over the last seven days. I swear to god it looks and feels like someone took a fucking carving knife to my head and scored the number eleven between my brows, bearing down as hard as they could.

I’ve always had a tenuous relationship with my hair, particularly the stuff on my head and forearms. The hair covering my scalp is a bitch, a grueling combination of body, frizz, curls, waves, fine, and thick—wholly uncooperative with a mind of its own. Too much time and money has been spent on changing the cut, color, and texture of my hair. I’ve also tried shaving the problem away at least three times (growing that out is an even bigger bitch). My arm hair isn’t as bad; it’s just dark and there’s a lot of it. I’ve waxed it off twice in my life, and regretted it both times. Not because it was painful (which it was) or I missed the hair (never), but because the black stubble is so much uglier than the fine soft hair it eventually becomes.

It’s currently mid-February, and the Williamsburg Duane Reade has already begun dollying up its store with Easter holiday merchandise. Perhaps if Duane Reade was a quirky neighbor on my block known for putting up decorations two months too early, I’d be sympathetic. But Duane Reade is not my neighbor; it’s a company, and it doesn’t give two shits about springtime or holiday spirit. Duane Reade moves up its merchandizing schedule earlier each year because its profitable. So when I see chocolate bunnies, basket grass, and plastic eggs in the height of winter, I’m not charmed; I’m revolted.

Friends, Over the weekend, New York City and me agreed to an open relationship for the foreseeable future. After nearly 16 years together, we feel it's the best thing for us. The decision was mutual. I’d like to meet other cities, and New York wants to explore the swell of transplants it's put on hold for the last decade out of respect for me, which, personally, I think is a great idea; New Yorkers just aren't what they used to be, and the two of us suspect our exclusivity is to blame.