I’m 33 now. I’ve been waiting to be 33 since I was 15, when I decided that 33 was going to be a magical age. There was no good reason for it. It just seemed like a good number.

Of course at the time, I never felt like I was ever going to be 33. Time moved so achingly slowly at that age that even hours were an eternity.

But now time slips by so damn quickly. Years pass without me even really noticing, and all the time behind me that was so full of agonized waiting is compressed into an instant, ready to reflect on whenever I please.

No one ever mentioned your relationship to time changes as you get older. That daydreaming about the things you might one day become slips over into reminiscing about all of the stupid things you’ve done or wish you’d done. Or maybe that’s just me. The looking back versus forward shift is subtle, but persistent. It been making me both happy in sad in very peculiar ways.

Regardless, 33 is off to a good start. We recreated my 11th birthday by eating pizza and going to see Jurassic Park, then some friends and I went up to LA where we all got to dress up. Stef and I went as Jane and Daria. We saw the sun come up and all was right with the world.

* * *

It’s been four years since I graduate from the Viable Paradise Workshop. They just announced the new incoming class and I’m filled with an excitement for them.

It changed everything for me, I can’t even begin to describe the web of ripple effects that cascaded from me being accepted and attending this workshop. I couldn’t imagine my life without the lessons and people it brought into my life.

* * *

My dad’s dying. This is complicated and difficult to write about or even think about. Since finding out I feel like my emotions have become more unpredictable and close to the surface. I don’t like being this volatile. It makes me feel like I’m losing control of everything.

We hadn’t spoken in five years for reasons I won’t go into here. I knew this was going to happen eventually and I didn’t know what I was expecting to feel.

Not this.

Some days are okay – the days I can pack with distractions.

Some days I cry while I’m reading something neutral. Everything reminds me of him. The grief comes in waves, sometimes small, sometimes in swells, sometimes cripplingly sudden.

I don’t know how to do this.

I’m scared for him.

I’m scared for me.

I’m just scared.

I don’t know what I would do without my girlfriend, secular sea witch coven, friends and art. I really don’t. It makes me grateful every day, which helps.

* * *

Here’s to thirty-three.