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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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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.

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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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