I don’t have a lot of friends. Real friends. And I choose it that way. I am social and gregarious but yet guarded and uncertain. Fuck off, I am. Even more so in this wildly accessible world we operate in. I seek authenticity. I hurt easily. I can shut down in an often imperceptible way. I expect a lot and I give a lot. My best friend in the whole wide world is B. He holds my heart, my soul, my fragilty, my me’ness with such tenderness and such honesty. He softens me in ways only he can see. And me him. I trust him with my thoughts, my heart, my truth and my life. I choose him above all else. And then there’s my family. Who know the worst and the best of me yet love me still. And I them. Deeply. But it’s the friendships forged over life stages that didn’t need to survive or count that I want to honour. That handful of beautiful exquisite fuck the world women who see deep into my soul and past the pretense. We are all so different, such different ages, we live all over the world, we are connected by blood, by marriage and by nothing at all. But something binds us. Something so raw and honest. Something called truth. I need you to know I see it, I am grateful for it, I protect it and I thank you for it. Especially right now. Fuck, it keeps me sane.