I know New Year’s Eve is supposed to be all about shedding the old skin and hope for a bright new future. But this year, I’m thinking more about the past than the future. Specifically, about last year’s wonderful party hosted by my friends Damon and Edith.

That night, Edith joked about her short sparkly dress, saying that it would be her last slutty New Year’s outfit. She told me her New Year’s resolution was to start wearing “age appropriate” clothing. We bitched about how hard it is for women to age gracefully in this superficial world and talked about trying to find a new kind of sexy for ourselves instead of clinging desperately to fading youth. Edith was always so stylish and classy and I always looked up to her. She had reinvented herself from scratch when she first came to Los Angeles and I was really looking forward to seeing this new kind of sexy that she was planning to invent for herself.

But that never happened. She took her own life before she could celebrate her next birthday.

In a selfish sort of way, I’m angry at her today. I’m angry that I have to pick an age-appropriate dress for New Year’s Eve and she doesn’t.

I miss you, Edith.

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