On my last night as a twenty-six year old, I donned a party hat that I had wrapped in Christmas tree garland, ate chicken and waffles with eight of my favorite of people (also in party hats, though less sparkly ones), met up with more friends to dance in a Bulgarian club until midnight when the DJ called my name and had the entire club sing me happy birthday and then moved onto another club where the 90s rap was in a language I could actually understand and continued dancing until 3am. Other highlights included: being serenaded on the street, being prayed over, getting whirled around and dipped for an intense minute on the dance floor, my friend's commitment to keeping the party hats on and looking over at a table and realizing my friends had already purchased my next four rounds.
The night started out a little rough with a few last-minute cancellations from friends and a large party taking their sweet sweet time at our table so we didn't actually get seated until 45 minutes later than when I had made my reservation, but it ended up being everything that I wanted it to be. Truly everything.
New York, sometimes when you're on, you're really fucking on.
Lets do this, twenty-seven.