I buy art for the home I do not yet own. For the kitchen and the bathroom that are not yet mine. A colorful print about La hora del Vermut bought in Barcelona while I was shopping for someone else; the print of a neon sign that says Get Naked. I keep them under my desk at my parents’ house, wait for the moment I will set roots down.


Leonard Cohen is sacred to me. Everybody Knows and A Thousand Kisses Deep and Here it is make me go quiet. So does Famous Blue Raincoat.


I am incapable of finishing a cup of tea. It gets tepid two-thirds of the way through, and I only drink it scalding. I leave a trail of never-empty mugs behind me and it drives my family absolutely bonkers.


I am a cat person, through and through, and a sunset person, too. But I have been warming up to dogs and sunrises.


I have a scar on my left palm; a tiny crescent above my life line. I have another one on my stomach, slightly longer, almost faded into my skin. I do not know how I got either of them.


I listen to terrible French rap when I need to concentrate and I haven’t yet figured out a way to keep my glasses clean. I used to think I would never get sick of French fries, but I had to eat some for four days straight last month, and I’ve changed my mind.


I leave socks strewn all over the place. I’ll pick up yesterday’s clothes from the floor, put away the scattered notebooks, but I’ll leave the socks. I don’t know, having seven days worth of socks thrown across the carpet makes me smile.


I am fiercely protective of my sleep. I like being bitten. My love languages include touching, and street art.


I have an excessive amounts of pillows and throws and books on my bed. It’s a nesting thing? I like the idea of falling asleep with a couple of books at the foot of my bed, tangled between the top sheet and the comforter. Like maybe they’ll follow me into my dreams.


One thing I’ve inherited from my family is that Sunday evenings are for champagne; that the quiets moments of life are reason enough for celebration. It isn’t particularly sophisticated, but a rum and coke will always be my cocktail of choice.


I buy clothes in the men’s section almost as often as I do the women’s. Men’s jackets have inside pockets; they know where it’s at. I took up running because I want to be able to outrun zombies should the need ever arise; it isn’t a joke. Having a Coke with you by Frank O’Hara is my favorite poem.





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