The thing about this summer — about my life thus far, really — is that my address and my friends and my pet and my modes of transportation and my Starbucks locations may, and do, change. And listen: my garden apartment is weird and cute in that “Hey, I live in a basement” kind of way. My friends here, while few and far between, are sure nice. My pet is not a dog. It’s a cat. (Uhh.) I like the train. And yes, a nonfat, dirty Tazo chai is a chai is a chai.
But for better or for worse, I am pretty dependably me.

I get up and make my inflatable bed every morning. I talk to my mom every day. I curse openly. I think the NBA sucks and would rather watch college ball any day of the week. All that happened in Kansas City; it happens in Des Moines; it happens in Chicago.

And when it comes to dating? For better or for worse, still dependably me: Chances are, I will fall hard and fast. I will tell my secrets willingly and trust easily — and I’ll like it. I know who I am, what I am, what I like and what I’m good at. I also know who I’m not and what I don’t do: I’m not a booty call, I’m not one of several, and I don’t do casual if casual is going to hurt. All in or all out, baby.
And no man in no city — however great both of them happen to be — will likely change that. There it is, for better or for worse.
I’ll sleep well tonight.

I’m alone when I lower my lamp
That’s why the lady is a tramp.

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