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From the PCL

I don't write enough lately. My thoughts are still so consumed by things I would rather not talk about at this point. There's no point.

I keep telling myself to keep a notebook on-hand to write the fleeting interesting thoughts in. There's no reason I don't. I have dozens of them. Tiny notebooks. Waiting. But I don't.

I've been thinking of moving home. I guess home, now, is where I grew up. Even that is kind of tied to Scott. I don't feel like pretending anymore.

I thought I grew up with Scott, but maybe the majority of my growth was in Houston. Maybe the last 9 years have just been a regression, and that's why I never seem to be going anywhere. I want to wear sweaters with icons on them, but I don't think they're allowed a work.

I don't think my hair is, technically. I tried to get something kind of natural and ended up with something kind of orange. I wanted it to be more of a bronze, I think. More reddish. I guess orange to bronze is more…

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