Nearly two years ago now, my mom dropped me off at the Guilford train station so I could begin the 3+ hour journey to JFK Airport, followed by the 24+ hour journey to Sydney.
So, I originally wrote a long-winded intro to this post while on my flight from Sydney to Manila. Then I devoured Mark Mansons’s new book The Subtle Art Of Not Giving A F*ck and decided it was way too whiny and that I should give less f*cks than I let on in it.
“How was your weekend?”, asks every king and queen of Small Talk who happens to engage me in a conversation on a Sunday night or Monday.
Weekends have meant nothing to me since I left the corporate world 1.5 years ago, so I don’t know how to answer this question anymore.
I’m a little weird about birthdays. Some years I let mine pass with nary a frill; others, I use it to justify any and all passing whims and indulge with zero guilt.
2015 was such an incredible year. I spent the entirety of it in Australia, save for a 3-week jaunt to Indonesia. It was a beautiful blend of routine and adventure that saw me settling down anywhere from a few days to a few months at a time, exploring my surroundings and then going on roadtrips and excursions in-between.
I’ve just moved into a share house in Camberwell, an eastern suburb of Melbourne, where I’ll be living for 4 weeks. Tonight, I’ll be sleeping in my 35th bed this year.
Ok, confession time: I am an extremely introverted person. We’re talking, like, nearly all the way to one end of the introversion-extraversion scale.
I feel like introverts, and introversion in general, are widely misunderstood.
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