I want to write a memoir. A memoir of a 24-year old. A memoir with self-deprecating overtones interspersed with the self-righteous and a generally lackluster plot line. Someday, that memoir will divulge the secret wisdom of writing in bars and avoiding MRSA without ever buying band-aids.
And then I fell on the ice again (bringing the score of Molly vs. Sidewalk to 0-2) and Buddy Holly asked me if I had any band-aids to which I responded, "no, I usually just tape some paper towel on my finger when I cut it making eggs."
Considering those two little factoids and the following photos depicting my secret domestic ineptitudes, I'd say my ego's about even for today. Manic-depressive? Surely not.
My apartment is cute, goddammit. You have to SEARCH for this shit. And I am not ashamed. Except maybe about scooping garbage out with my hands. Commence self-deprecation.
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