November

The nuts are gathered. The cave is prepared. By November you’re out of summer’s pretense and completely into winter mode—thinking less about the world and more about what you actually want around you for the next few months.

What lands: Bill Murray in anything. That’s non-negotiable. People you’ve known long enough you don’t need to explain yourself to. Grapefruit if you want it. Curry in the morning. A washing machine that doesn’t betray you at the worst moment. Someone answering the phone. Pictures that look like something, not just documentation. Food that tastes right. Donkey Kong. Sex with people who’ve lived more, who don’t treat you like you’re making discoveries. Bad jokes. Dumbbells by your bed because you know yourself by November. Reading things backwards. Writing the year review before the year’s done because impatience feels like urgency. Berlin Fashion Week because clothes done right is interesting. Things that work without asking you to appreciate them.

What’s exhausted: almost everything else. The internet eating itself. Twitter as metrics. Every city ranked until nothing’s special. Christmas markets in September now. Memes as decoration. Scratches on expensive laptops. Sleep as a virtue. The collective existential dread everyone’s contracted and repackaged as personality. Exes. Neighbors on a different timeline. Dishes stacking up as autobiography. Apartments like a dentist’s office. The constant performance of progressing toward something.

November’s simple: keep what works. Lose the weight.