The day before my birthday was beautiful. It was one of those clear summer days in New York that somehow [...]
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"A short but deeply researched, dark, intense biography... studded with original aperçus about the art of biography, the nature of literary influence, and the importance of place to a writer's sensibility." -- Priscilla Gilman, The Boston Globe
The day before my birthday was beautiful. It was one of those clear summer days in New York that somehow evades the typical humidity and the sun’s unbearable heat. Instead of roasting everything beneath it, the sun proudly showcased New York’s beauty. The pink and purple flowers on the High Line unfurled themselves towards the sky in euphoria and their exaggerated hues shone bright on firm petals. The fountain at Washington Square Park glistened as fully dressed toddlers waddled into the water with arms outstretched, mystified by the sparkling surface. Central Park’s typically mossy appearance was transformed into an electric shade of green that made the landscape look like it had been photoshopped to perfection. Along with endless sunshine, the day before my birthday was full of hearty laughter, family and friends, and too much sangria. Unfortunately, the happiness would wane throughout the next day until there was only a sliver left.
The waning began first thing in the morning when I woke up at 6:30 a.m., fell to the bathroom floor, and vomited. Happy Birthday, I thought to myself as I hugged the toilet bowl: my white ceramic savior.