Hey. I’m still alive. I’ve actually ended things with the now ex boyfriend who I miss like my best friend (because he was my best friend), but my pup and I found a sweet apartment with a backyard, and I’ve been spending a lot of time decorating my new room and crying while riding public transportation. There have been ups and a great many downs.

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Searching for housing in New York sucks. I don’t even need to go into detail – everyone already knows about the tiny, windowless closets people rent out for $2,000 a month, not to mention the bugs and the roommates and the apathetic landlords and the pet restrictions and fees. 

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I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing right now. I haven’t written in a few weeks. My boyfriend and I decided we’re splitting up when our lease ends at the beginning of September. 

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This is a sappy, emo entry, so if you’re not in the mood to join me with eye-liner and side-swept flat bangs, this is your opportunity to leave the theater. TY. 

That said, I’ve been feeling forlorn lately (to be fair, this is how I’ve started nearly 87% of my journal entries since 4th grade). I’ve been thinking about love. How are you supposed to know if someone is “the one”? Are you supposed to just know? 

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You know that story about WWI soldiers giving their opponents chocolate bars on Christmas eve, mid-war?

I feel like that’s the point my acne has reached.

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Apparently, my Dad is going to Thailand with my big sister next year when she has reassignment surgery. He doesn’t want her to be alone.

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It’s a rainy Saturday; I’m on my second bloody mary of the day, and I’ve been sitting back, catching up on the latest dog meme drama. Apparently, a couple weeks ago, the dog meme page, Floof Bork Snoot ‘N’ Boop Inc, was taken for ransom by the owner of the smash-hit sensation, Doge.

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