It’s 2 p.m. and the coffee pot is still full. I hear the sound of my roommate’s Juul crackling from the kitchen as I head out the door. Across the street, I’m greeted by silhouettes of the housing project and that joyous scent of stale New York piss. As if this moment wasn’t glamorous enough, a convertible full of fuckboys taking selfies drive by. I’m u…
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