My birthday this year fell on the same weekday as the day I was born to terrorize this earth. Wednesday! The best day of the week, in my opinion. It wouldn’t be the first time I cried in Westwood, Los Angeles— it’s common knowledge that I was born at the UCLA hospital (Bruin born and Bruin bred, baby!). On four other occasions, the calendar has repeated and I’ve celebrated on a Wednesday. It's like closing a loop every time, so amusing. To celebrate, I adhered to the four C’s: Caviar (Kaspia), Charvet, Céline, and Canal (St. Martin).
Each July, I reaffirm that I wouldn’t trade places with my younger self: a precocious set of bones, ribbons, knives, and split ends. Not much has changed; I still have split ends and never stopped wearing ribbons or carrying knives around. My big pharma colleagues still found me precocious at 26. And though I sometimes miss my younger self’s insouciance, I love caring about shit more. SO MUCH has changed, actually. I’ve built character.
This month, I’ve thought a lot about the word suzerainty. In part because it’s composed of my nickname + my favorite weather pattern. But also because I temporarily moved to a new country to explore questions like: