On a hazy evening in that first, frigid week of January, I drag a sage green laundry basket stiff with piles of folded knit sweaters across the concrete jungle of Passy. Past the stairs and benches blocked off by a combination of rope and duct tape, and into my too-warm apartment littered with familiar and forgotten details: a photograph of my best friend and me during a girl’s weekend three...
Reading You for Filth: Reflections on Imposter Syndrome and the New Year
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