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NYU

I have been in fights. I have been mugged. Death is something that I accept and have accepted ever since my friend jumped off the library of NYU. I am afraid of dying with my glasses on. I am afraid of sleeping with my contacts on.

In a theater ~10-12 min before the 8:40 p.m. showing of harrowing foreign film next to ambivalent date in awkward silence who resents you for having to read subtitles on a weeknight.

Last week, Dakota and I met with Father on his boat in Nantucket. The moment dinner was served he started rambling on about how we need to “put down the hash pipe,” “get our hands dirty” and learn first-hand the “honor” and “credibility” we could gain by truly “struggling” as artists.

On my first night, after freshman orientation, I’d start a cassette-only record label with the American Apparel model down the hall. We’d release dubstep remixes of witch house songs and make out in front of popular party photographers. We’d break up after she cheats on me with Ezra Koenig, and then I’d write a 20,000 word blog post calling Vampire Weekend our generation’s Boston.

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