My husband, medium rare New York cut pepper steaks, same sex marriage, Gavin Newsom, spaghetti and meatballs, my stepfather, unexpectedly finding old photographs, Damien Echols, Moby, hip hop, rayon jersey, chocolate – but only See’s, sex – but only on occasion, my multiregional DVD player, bell hooks, the new Dame Darcy stained glass windows, the bed that had no frame, just the rose pink futon mattress that sank in the middle, when making love to my long lost lover years ago, then left behind when he left me, or I left him, when I went off to Las Vegas angry and sad, silk but not silk shantung or raw silk, Ani DiFranco, expensive old books, realizing I have been wrong about something all along, being loved, loving back, pumice stones, drugstore makeup, cornbread, “All That Jazz,” some young gay men who do not say a word to me but hug me and will not let go, certain types of crying, Eugene Levy, drag queens who do not take drugs, Henry Darger’s art but not really Henry Darger, “Style Wars,” Benefit Lipstick in Dietrich, Madonna’s “Bedtime Stories” CD, young lesbians with smart mouths, deep tissue massage especially if it is from the “Crusher” in Boston, staying home, getting dressed, RYAN, sleeping in, coming home, realizing that I have survived my childhood and am almost a middle aged woman, celebrating the birthday of my dead best friend, “Tristan and Isolde,” Jennifer Chiba, Elliott Smith, almost all appetizers, Steve Diet Goedde photographs, MC Slug, my dogs Ralph and Bronwyn, laughing so hard that I collapse on the ground, Bjork, belly chains, landing, scandalous news about certain celebrities, dancing, dresses, BOWIE, other people’s yearbooks, documentaries, Tupac, my friends who know who they are, horseradish, late night talks with near strangers that verge on the intimacy of lovemaking but utterly nonphysical, Dungeness crabs, summers in Truro, karaoke, shoulder blades, ghosts, screening calls, being overworked, knee pads, mustard, her voice, some poems, Neil Finn, Rainn Wilson’s Master Class at The Acting Corps, eye makeup remover pads, funerals, New Orleans, singing, luxurious hotels, Powerbooks, Counting Crows, friends I once had who are no longer my friends yet I will never stop loving them, Eastenders, Canter’s after midnight, the kind of Southern Christians that handle the rattlesnakes, comic’s compilation videos of television oddities, Liz Phair, bath sheets, girls with long hair cut regularly so there are no split ends, white satin worn like Karen Black in “Day of the Locust,” T1 connections, memories of New York in the early ’90s and the people I used to love there who I don’t see anymore, Catherine Deneuve, my Halliburton steel metal suitcase that fucking broke even though it had a lifetime guarantee, Reuben sandwiches, Julie Christie, Dizzee Rascal, hospital horror stories, running away from home, Scott Wilson in “In Cold Blood,” compulsive liars, ADD, room temperature fruit, high thread count sheets, trains, doctor’s bags, Marc Jacobs high heels, freedom, learning new things, sewing, going days without grooming in the same clothes and not caring, wild coyotes, Coke, uniforms, The Beach Boys, extensive knowledge of all types of film so comprehensive that one famous director told me I could have been an employee at his old video store, unemployment benefits, grandmothers who happen to be lesbians, dreams, boba tea, riding my bike in Provincetown, Ebay, art nouveau, mourning rings with human hair, thuddy sensations, air conditioning, money, you.