2023 4Eva

I’ve had a great year. The world continues to fall into a deep vat of shit state of disarray, but I choose to take full advantage of my White American privilege, pinching my nose and closing my eyes to the horrors of our world, look on the bright side.

That said, there are so many to thank for my stellar year. But before that, let’s list my 2023 accomplishments*!

*Mind you, a select few of my accomplishments. I have done so much and am so hot, sexy, and talented, there are too many things to list!

1. I saved enough money to go backpacking through Europe for two months. How did I save? I simply stopped buying iced coffees every morning! I made coffee with my Nespresso pods at home. #sponsored.
2. I found a dream apartment, and got it with no broker’s fee! It’s my dream to have my heating break down consistently, turning me and my partner into human icicles. Being cold is hot! Or should I say, haute! (Is that what that word means? Nevermind.)
3. I got skin cancer! BUT THEN I GOT IT TAKEN OUT, and having a grotesque facial bandage and Frankenstein stitches made me #humble and closer connected to my ancestors.
4. A bunch of Taro readers of TikTok told me that I’m better than most people, but especially better than my middle school bullies. So suck on that, Brittany Mayfield!
5. People texted ME to HANG OUT. ME! To HANG OUT! I ignored their texts for three days and responded by blaming my inattentiveness on a bad case of seasonal affective disorder that I’ve never been diagnosed with. :)
6. I managed to turn 24 and not cry about it! I did have an anxiety attack during my birthday party because my friends did hold an “intervention,” for my “horse-betting problem,” but y’know when life gets you down, it’s best to get right back on the horse! RIDE THAT BLACK BEAUTY INTO THE SUNSET, and MAKE A KILLING WHILE DOING IT.

Ok, now to the part where I have to thank people in order to seem grounded or whatever.

I have to begin by thanking my team, for supporting me during my artistic pursuits this year. That is my softball team, the Rough Riders. Without you ladies and theydies I never would have attempted that high-kick curve ball on the mound! Here’s to us ladies, and to beating out the Busch Butches next season!

Thanks to my real friends. You know who you are. To those who are maybe curious, I am not friends with the following: Monica, Angelina, Sergio, Moonbeam, Elonkabeth, Jerrish, and Pyne. You tramps are dead to me, after what you did in Mykonos. Mykonos, as in the club in Bushwick, not Mykonos the country. State? Whatever.

Thanks to my boyfriend Lennon. You look nice in that Magenta peacoat I bought you. Why haven’t you worn it? Do you wish I were dead? Call me back.

Thank you to Armie Hammer for re-activating Instagram. I’ll be waiting for my DM! (Real Jet here: Can I make that joke? Regardless, him reactivating and posting like nothing happened is CRAZY.)

Thanks a million to my Mommy.

Speaking of millions…where is that trust fund, biatch?! As much as you insist one doesn’t exist, I will continue to search for it National-Geographic-Opening-A-Cursed-Mummy-Tomb style!

Thanks to Mitski’s “My Love, Mine All Mine.” I love it when an earnest love song is commodified for 10-second TikToks! Art is content, and content is king! Rot your brain with the infinite scroll!

Finally, thanks to you, dear reader! I got lackadaisical on posting towards the latter half of this year but look at you, still here, clinging on to every word I say…write.

I did slack on posting, sorry about that. I got a little…I don’t know. I’ve had a truly phenomenal year. I lived out my lifelong dream of backpacking through Europe. I came back a changed, and much poorer person. I spent time in the gorgeous Hudson Valley, watching my love perform Shakespeare all summer. I was challenged and learned that growth can be uncomfortable, but beautiful. I made a plethora of new friends, (the girls at NYP hold the dearest place in my heart.) I made art with people who respected my vision and made me almost piss my pants laughing. I did move to a beautiful apartment, (though “dream” is a stretch, I’m holding out for a floor-through in a Park Slope brownstone.) I proved to myself I could, time and time again. I wrote, produced, and performed a show I’m proud of and excited to expand upon in the new year.

Towards the end of this December though I just got…tired. Tired in a…“maybe I need to call the doctor and get special brain medicine” way.

I fell incredibly ill with the flu immediately following the premiere of Jet, Live. My feverish symptoms and pure exhaustion from such an exciting event kept me bedridden like a Jane Austen character for a week. That week led into the holidays, and everyone gets a little glum around the holidays, right? It’s dark at 4:45 pm. You run into old high school friends with a stable income, and wonder, “What if I didn’t pursue my dreams?” You eat one too many of your sister-in-law’s eggnog cookies while doom-scrolling through Alix Earle’s Instagram page and wonder what cystic-acne-inspired TikTok you could create to become a 23-year-old millionaire.*

* If you don’t know influencer Alix Earle, or the impetus for her fame, please look at her Wikipedia page, it’s delirious.

But even before my unexpected 16-day stay-at-home-puking vacation, I was feeling the effects of my previously mentioned undiagnosed seasonal affective disorder. I was staying home. Sleeping hours of my day away, silencing phone calls. Wasting nights watching so many YouTube videos, which let’s admit, is the first sign of one’s mental decline.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this other than using my switch from satire to confessional as a way to appeal to the reader’s relief response.

No–I’m trying to say, I think my year looked nice on Instagram. And it was nice. I have led a privileged, beautiful, immeasurably cool, year. I am insanely grateful for the people in my life who carried me through it. Particularly to my partner Lennon, who through the cold of November and December practically Weekend at Bernie’s my worn-out body to work and rehearsals.

And this year was tough. I cried a lot this year. I did get skin cancer. My laundry was stolen. I only ended up in my almost-a-dream apartment, because I slogged through the summer heat to tour 15 shit holes by myself, bringing a measuring tape with me to each viewing to see if my Shakespearean 6’4” boyfriend could fit under their shower heads. I started this year with a savings account, and then someone stole my identity and galivanted through Europe and spent it all up! WHO DID THAT? Student loan debt came back into vogue. I discovered new ways to disappoint myself.

But I’m not gonna complain. I’m not complaining.

If 2023 has taught us anything, I hope it’s taught us privileged few to be thankful for our lives, and all we have, (and to fight fiercely for those whose lives and homes have been stripped from them *cough* Free Palestine *cough*.)

I’m so thankful for this year, and for the people who led me through it. So much of me aches for what was, and what could’ve been this year. For me, for you, for the world.

So, if like me, you’ve spent the 5-day haze between Christmas and New Year’s watching every influencer tell you how to vision board, or manifest, or enter a new reality, and highlight how profitable, sexy, glamorous 2023 their year’s been, just know, they’ve probably had some shit moments in their year too.

And that January 1st is just another day. An anniversary of another day. And there’s so much to be thankful for. And so much to change.

Life isn’t pages-turning, it’s a path unfurling. Fuck, I am soooo good at writing.

Thank you, for reading Jet Trails for the last year. I’ll go back to bi-monthly posts, I promise.

As for 2023, Aud Lang Syne, motherfuckers. Aud Lang Syne.