Tonight I went to a wedding and came home delightfully tipsy and slightly sad. Although it was sweet to see old friends and witness two people set off on what must seem like an endless road of possibility and passion, it made me very aware of my own mortality and my single-ness, my lone ranger life. I came home to a quiet house–not empty, because my house has its own daemon and it’s a good one–but there was no one I chew over the events of the evening with and the silence seemed too big and weighty. I started wrapping Christmas presents and came across this glittery kitschy angel I bought on a whim, folded up in fragile tissue paper. Her Miss American Angel sash reads “Sweet Dreams” and her wings are gold and her moon-topped crown is silver and she looks concerned, thoughtful and attentive. It made me wish for a visitation from a guardian angel who could talk some sense into me:

“There are worse things than putting air in your own tires.”

“Stop feeling guilty about the vibrator.”

“Your path in life has been perfectly You.”

“Admit it…reading in bed alone at 2am is delicious.”

“Be brave, be bold, be Nikkiriffic.”