All’s fair in love in your twenties where rules are meant to be broken and mistakes are meant to be made (except where condoms are concerned). I’m officially past the point that’s considered “mid-twenties,” by numerical definition — as “mid” generally signifies, um, the middle of something. I haven’t had a one-night stand with a narcissistic writer with mommy issues, and an awful name like, let’s say, Donald, in awhile. (This may have something to do with having a boyfriend who smokes cigarettes after Sunday morning hikes. The one with
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