I am a twenty-something. I carry around a thinly bound journal, which sports a green and white checkered cover that is scotch-taped around the edges. As it strikes me, I will jot down recipes, poems, poorly constructed sketches, to-do lists, the occasional story idea, book titles, and pithy observations. I revel in small joys, such as: Licking ice cream off my elbow when it quickly melts on a hot summer day. Running a particularly smooth ballpoint pen in concise letters across a college-ruled leaf of paper. Handkerchiefs.
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