“It was the familiar state of panic I’d experienced frequently throughout four years of undergraduate life; the same sputtering and aimless flailing, the same frantic attempts to free myself from a tangle of bedsheets. On those mornings I was greeted by intermittent flashes of assignments yet undone while I fumbled for an alarm clock that got perpetually misplaced at the crucial moment, and some memory of which class I was about to be late for. Now I sat straight up and conked my head. Sooner th...an usual, everything came back into sharp focus—graduation and Régine, Madeline and Dorian, and how could I forget?, the four-foot apartment that I lived in, with the tin ceiling whose duty it was to smash my dream-filled head into waking life. A lot of people thought I was joking when I told them my New York “apartment” was only four feet tall, but with my negligible income as a part-time library assistant in the Yale Art History archives—depleted constantly by my acquisition of thrifted wardrobe pieces—I had been lucky to afford even that.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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