Garrett Houghton

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I make a massive bowl of Greek yogurt with fresh strawberries, blackberries, chia seeds, and flax. I drizzle honey that I bottled from the personal honeycomb I harvest in my backyard and almost immediately I have the feeling that today is going to be a beautiful one.

I’m trapped in a jail cell with walls made of Lena Dunham’s outfits in Girls and Michael Cera’s squeaking voice — awkwardness used to be the new cool and now it seems it here to stay and I’m suffocating from all of the tension.

It’s a shorter workweek thanks to America turning one year older, and while we’re all trying to curb our hangovers and overstuffed stomachs, Hollywood is cashing in on the fact that dark, AC-cranked theaters is where we’ll all head to this weekend to cure our July 4th woes.

Ms. Alabaster never called me back, sending me into a deep spiral of despair. Things that didn’t matter started to matter a whole lot: I would never get to see her antique collection; I would never get to talk more jazz-flute shop.