Everything — housing, food, drinks, activities — is more expensive. Places are harder to get tables at, harder to get into. Lines are longer. But isn’t that part of the thrill? That this love is never totally requited?

I thought of the countless books in just that one library. How many of them haven’t been read in years if not decades?

When I was 18, I would have probably told you that it was impossible to even be a writer without going through some CRAZY shit and coming out the other side, without partying or experiencing life’s wacked out niches, without being an outspoken outsider with their life held together by dental floss and chewing gum.