In 2018 I had been working hard labor for two months.
Like an inmate cracking rocks.
Every night I returned to the small house of the Greenwich estate and downed three aspirins with a little vodka. My body was as weak as Superman encased in a igloo of kryptonite instead of his comfy Fortress of Solitude and I wished I could spent the day in bed, except I have a horde to feed and I wake in the morning telling myself, "This doesn't look anything like Christmas."
Tomorrow I return to New York.
Today.
A holiday party.
Dance and drink alone in the cold New England night.
I'll be better tomorrow.
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