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I never did follow-up on my post from July. As luck would turn out, a few days after the gigantic grasshopper landed on my steering wheel, I received an invitation to interview for a job I did not remotely expect to get... and then I got it. I f**king got it. It was like, wait, what? Things happened so quickly, I had some difficulty processing everything. I went from "doing well" to "top 1%-rich" overnight. I don't feel rich, though, because my dad has a million health problems that I'm paying up the nose for, and I also helped my roommate/best friend buy a house. Additionally, I contributed to the political campaign of another one of my close friends, so yeah... Maybe once all these expenses are paid, I'll finally feel wealthy/buy something for myself!


In addition to the gigantic luck career-wise, something even more important and "big" happened to me: I met S. I feel awkward saying he's the one I've been waiting for; I don't want to be disrespectful to those I've dated and genuinely loved. C was one of my favorite people in the world; I can't even describe who he was to me in entirety because he was my everything. Yet, I also know this to be true: as much as I loved C, and as much of a force-of-nature as he was (and as it was for us to meet and spend those years together), I also did not feel like we were "meant to be" in that way. He was my friend, the funny, brilliant and big-hearted human being who was my companion and our third musketeer. When I die, he better be there to receive me into the next world, whether that's a world of unconscious nothings or a traditional "afterlife" or something none of us can even imagine in our humanly state. But he was not "the one."


You see -- as I wrote in my very first post -- just as I always knew the city and neighborhood I was going to live in since I was a child (as well as the type of home I would one day own), I also knew the person I would end up with, even though I had not met him yet. It was always just so clear to me, even when I was 16-17. I knew the church I would marry in, his hair color, his eye color, his occupation, his likes and dislikes, the conversations we would have, his essence. And as much as I have had some amazing friendships resulting from my past relationships, and have even been genuinely in love, I just always knew.

And so, here I am, finally. With the job I've been wanting my entire life. With the one I spent my life searching for. I looked into the mirror the other day, with a few strands of grey hair and the heaviness of the past years weighing in on my once-youthful face, and I thought: things definitely did not turn out as I'd planned, but I did grow up to become exactly the person I thought I would, and exactly as I'd always wanted to be.


Writer's pictureLaura L



The somewhat ironic juxtaposition of my Home & Design magazine arriving just as I dash out the door to certify my dad's lease renewal (at his welfare apartment complex)... As luck would have it, the formerly homeless man whose apartment I furnished was hanging around the lobby and recognized me. He made another comment about how strange it was that I have a parent who lives there. "You just don't look the type!" he exclaimed again.


What is the "type," anyway? I don't mean aesthetics; I know what poor people look like. What separates the people who spend tens of thousands renovating their homes to look like a literal magazine, and the ones who go to bed hungry at night? Each of my dad's neighbors have their own stories. The apartment manager told me once that most of the residents actually did work their entire lives and simply ran out of money by the time retirement came (or they outlived their retirement savings). They live in pretty harsh conditions -- some don't have any furniture, many are food-insecure, and all live in poverty.


The "human rights" argument has never rang true to me; it feels like almost a straw man's argument. Of course it's not a "human right" to be entitled to nice sofas, stylish dining tables and top-of-the-line comforters to tuck ourselves into at night; of course our poor have it easier than the third world's poor.


Still, in a country with all this money, where a not-insignificant number of people can obtain lavish holiday dinners and SUVs and the whole white picket fence dream -- surely, there is room for some relief in the world where these residents dwell.

Writer's pictureLaura L


Tonight S & I went to the Van Gogh live experience in St. Louis. Van Gogh is my favorite artist, but I also never fully humanized him: he was just "that brilliant, crazy artist" who cut off his own ear in a rage and (perhaps inevitably) took his own life years later.

The exhibit plainly stated that Van Gogh’s life was one of both extreme triumphs and extreme failures. These words really hit me: “Far from the dark madness that accompanies the legend of his genius, Van Gogh’s work radiates of joy and celebrates life.” His suicide and untimely end in no way negates the wondrous beauty of Starry Night or Cafe Terrace. It makes me think: Min was such a funny, vibrant, big-hearted, and insanely talented human being as well. His tragic ending should not take away from any of that.

I am not someone who has ever thought of heaven as a place literally paved with gold. I don’t know if I’ve ever conceptualized it at all, actually. But when I saw these paintings populate the walls around me, one by one, I suddenly did get a sense of what the afterlife holds. I’d like to think that he — and Min, and all the sensitive souls that left us too early — are doing the same in the next world, filling everything with magnificent colors, making it as full of life and beauty as they did here.

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