I'm at the Brooklyn Public Library rolling on doctor-approved Adderall, checking my e-mail for the first time in a week. I don't have a computer. I also don't have a phone, nor anything else that might serve as a digital leash. I'm shocked to see that my estranged, absentee parents have each e-mailed me a dozen times detailing their sudden great concern over my lifestyle choices. It seems my last roommate didn't so much get the understated humor of the fake suicide note I left her last week when I moved all of my stuff out in the middle of the night without telling her.
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