A psychoanalysis he didn’t ask for:

When we were at the Mets game yesterday, Kyle asked me how the move was going.

Scrap blog! Scrap blog! Scrap blog!

I’ve been dreaming of a green bedroom, a darker green.

Two blog posts in a week? Seems like SOMEBODY just finished a book she really loves about being an artist.

My hair is getting longer. It almost sits in a way I want.

I sit in Madison Square Park for the first time in a long time. A visit to my old office this afternoon has me meandering around the shadows of my life almost five years ago.

I sit on a bench overlooking the Hudson River in Fort Tryon Park and close my book about writing, objectively one of the most embarrassing things you could possibly choose to read in public.

It’s a scrap blog! Here’s the beginning of an essay I’ve been working on for several months that just hit the cutting room floor.

It’s nearly one in the morning and I am walking across town to catch the A Train and Luis Guillorme is moving to the Braves and I think about texting my most recent ex-boyfriend but I don’t.

I think the arrival of December encourages you to take stock of the year you’ve had.

Shelby and I went to see Sofia Coppola’s Priscilla.

I like to drive my mom’s car, a white VW convertible Beetle, around in the back roads surrounding my hometown after I run one (1) errand, so at least I feel like I did something.

It’s 1:25am on a weeknight and I am, tragically, very awake.

I could tell quickly, as I set my queue of podcasts earlier this week, that I am emerging from a darker moment.

I think trying to independently procure meals at my parents’ house is the closest I’ll ever get to foraging for food.

I get kicked off the A Train at 168th Street at 12:20am on a Thursday morning (Wednesday night, if you’re not annoying).

I wander downstairs around nine each morning, which, compared to the mornings I’ve had at my apartment lately, isn’t half bad.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the way the shape of your life can change.

To take a shower in your own bathroom, washing a plane from your skin with your own products and your own towel and your own setup after some time away, is an unmatched catharsis.