I have checked the front door lock 1, 2, 3, 4 times. I have jimmied the balcony door wondering if it could be broken down with enough brute force. I have checked the back door, twisting the key to unlock it and lock it again just to be sure.
I don’t know how to explain to you why a Wednesday night alone in my apartment watching Gilmore Girls feels infinitely more dangerous than that time I hitchhiked in Costa Rica, climbing on a random dude’s motorcycle without a helmet on (true story). Sometimes I seriously worry that I don’t know how to assess risk properly.
After a ferocious week of moving things from one place to another, scrubbing on my hands and knees, and moving furniture and objects to different places in my apartment, I felt myself begin to sink into the deep end. You know the one where you wake up and wonder if the day has anything left for you. I canceled plans, stayed in bed, rested, then at times felt FOMO and lonely about canceling said plans.
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