The last time I was actually in touch with my authentic self, as opposed to searching around for it, or insisting that I was showing it, or resolving within myself to show it, was probably some twelve years ago. I was living alone in a studio apartment on Columbia Street in the Adams Morgan neighborhood of Washington D.C. The apartment had a bay window that let light in on three sides, and shortly after moving in I went to find a lazy boy recliner on Craigslist to put there so I could sit and read by the window with the nice light. I was twenty-six at the time, which is to say I hadn’t yet reached the age where one begins to have strong opinions about furniture.
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