Another anniversary. The years piling up. The details slipping. Now sixteen. But now, more things make sense. Why you may have done it. My understanding expanded. The term clinical depression giving it the balance it demands. Still. I miss you. I miss you. Sometimes I write the story of your final hours. You hung up the phone with me. You told me you were on your way to your friend’s birthday party, at a bar. Her name lost to me now, these many years later. You packed your gun, the .357 magnum. You’d practiced holding that gun. You’d gone to the shooting ranges a few months prior. How we laughed about that. I didn’t know you owned that gun, the one you used to take your life. You had a video cassette–the medium of that era–of the film you were working on, that you wrote, “Robbie’s Brother.” The film that drove so much of your anxiety those final months. The script you were so proud of. I was so honored to have watched a cut, give you notes. What became of the film? Some other things. You drove to a side street by LAX. Parked your car. Left everything in it. Except the gun. You walked into the ravine. Where the joggers run with their dogs. Maybe teenagers go there too for heaving petting. You walked. And walked. You found the spot, maybe the spot you scouted. Stood there. For how long? What were the thoughts, beyond “It’s time to die?” Some time during those hours, I found a photo of you and me and Doug at a Wigstock, when it was still at Tompkins Square Park. Topless women behind us. We were giddy about their breasts. That call, that night, so vivid. Your mother called two days later, wondering if you’d come to New York. Your family concerned. Your circle of friends, banding together. Doug driving through the hills, looking for you. A daughter of a friend with a vision, of you smiling, laying in the ground. Missing flyers emailed and posted everywhere. You were found, lost to us, ten days later. A dog, following by a jogger. On this anniversary, I replay all the moments of those days. Flying to LA, with my husband and baby. Jimmy picking us up at the airport. Going directly to the memorial. Reading the eulogy I wrote on the flight. My voice cracking, but once, when I dared to look up at the room filled with your friends, catching the eye of your mother. The things we did, I told the room. Going to London, buying platform shoes like the Spice Girls wore. The fascination with Hello Kitty. Our roadtrips to Las Vegas, Sedona, other places. All those nights in your apartment, when you still lived in New York. Seeing the mystic Rabbi, who promised us both love and happiness. You arriving in my hospital room, the day my daughter was born. All the things we shared, all the things we shared. My friend Wendy came with Emmy, who showed me her engagement ring. My baby fussing in the back of the room while I spoke. Sitting by the grave, finally crying, Diane’s arms around my shoulders. You decided. Time to die. All these moments, rushing in and out, never really leaving me anyway. And so I miss you. And celebrate you. As I do, as I have done, every since you decided it was time.

A real shero.

The Cinema Siren Says on why pride is for everyone.

So it’s fun to harass women? Uh, no.

Pauline Porizkova: “I used to think the word “feminist” reeked of insecurity. A woman who needed to state that she was equal to a man might as well be shouting that she was smart or brave. If you were, you wouldn’t need to say it. I thought this because back then, I was a Swedish woman.”

Agnes Gund, putting her money to start a Criminal Defense Fund. “This is one thing I can do before I die.”

Dustin Lance Black. “We know that every single person on this planet is a minority in one way or another, it just depends on how you slice that pie. We all have an interest in making sure that our neighbor is being cared for, protected and respected in the same way we are, not despite their differences, but in celebration of them. We have that responsibility.”

Roxane Gay has a new book, Hunger. ““The story of my body is not a story of triumph. Mine is not a success story.”

I also want to read Naomi Alderman’s vision of what the world would look like if women read it. I loved Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Her, after all.

A look at Blossom.

More ladies like us at the top.

Parenting tips, or sort of.

When you’re territorial about candles.

And now have a laugh with Ali Wong.