When you’re sleeping on some stranger’s couch for a week any bed feels like home. When you’ve been wearing 3 shirts for 7 days (let’s not talk about the socks…), wearing pajamas feels like home. When you finally, after panicking for a split second, figure out that the top lock turns left and the bottom right, then you know you’re home.

I’ve never once lived outside of NYU housing, let alone Manhattan. It’s incredibly strange to go anywhere without my NYU id, and to see a neighbor who doesn’t think in terms of how far away the next naptime is. I think I’ll like living somewhere else for a few months. I’m already in love with saying it:

I live in Brooklyn.