(12/13) “I spent the 4th of July alone in my new place. It’s a...

(12/13) “I spent the 4th of July alone in my new place. It’s a nice one-bedroom, overlooking the river. I cooked my favorite meal. Hard shell crabs, spread over pasta. I sat on the balcony and watched the fireworks. And suddenly I start crying like a baby, thinking about what they symbolize. The next morning I put on my suit, looked in the mirror, and called myself a pussy. My boss tells me I’m too intense. I get it. I’m too intense for myself; but there’s only one right way. One right way to be the best. And until it’s right, it’s not enough. It will never be enough; never, ever. I was supposed to die of AIDS in prison. That was supposed to be my legacy. They counted me out. A lot of people counted this restaurant out too. When we opened 20 years ago: Madonna was here, this star, that star, James Beard Award. But the New York dining culture moves on fast. Maybe some people thought we weren’t relevant anymore. Then the pandemic came. We were supposed to die. But look at us now: setting records, month-over-month. I wasn’t the only one to make it happen. It’s our whole team. It’s the way we make people feel. But it was my responsibility. I found every vendor that was overcharging us. I put an extra banquette on the wall, for thirteen more seats. I’ve got a list of 7,000 birthdays. And every person is getting an email, one week before, inviting them to celebrate at Craft. I’ll do whatever it takes. It will never be enough. Don’t tell me to let it go. Fuck you. That’s what everyone does; they let go of the anger. Don’t you understand? That’s what they want you to do. If they thought everyone was going to come home and be a motivated motherfucker asshole like me, maybe they’d fix the system. So your little brother, or your father, or your son, won’t have to deal with the same shit. How about you, Mr. Politician? When your son develops a drug problem because of your drive for power; maybe then you’ll care about the 2.2 million sons rotting away in prison, too ashamed to speak to their own fathers. You’ll be glad then that 56134066 didn’t let go. Not me, I’m never letting go. Never. Not until every single one of them says: ‘Wow, that motherfucker really did it.’