Bad Lungs, Dead Friends & Recovering Mean Girls

two puffs of my inhaler... lets goooo

A Sunday letter is criminal! Ignore your brunch date and read this. I went out of the house only three times in June. But I am living an old life reading the Times and doing crossword puzzles wearing my inside shoes which oddly happen to be black Dansko clogs, cozily sitting by the fire with my partner and kids, I’m doing family better than heterosexuals so I win!

Remember that smog in the New York air for which I’m blaming the Canadian Singer Drake for? Well it’s back and it’s after me. It has messed with my lungs wiped me out for weeks. I’m behind on everything. As I am waiting to have my voice back, clearer eyes and free from congestion, I’ll be dancing in between cuz you can’t keep a chronically ill New Yorker down.

Last Saturday I was planning on doing just that, some dancing, catching up with the cute gays of nyc I even decided to wear a mesh top that signals ‘I’m gay not an ally.’ Then I got a phone call, which ew don’t ever call me unless someone … shit unless someone dies.