We found a pulse.

Not dead. For nine days, anyway, if you believe certain misinterpreters of archaic timekeeping.

Got a full-time job, got an apartment of my own, ran off to New York for a weekend, &c &c. This all makes it sound dreadfully more simple than it actually was, but panic attacks don’t really make for entertaining blog posts.

Does this mean I’ve entered adulthood? I’ve just spent the past four hours watching YouTube clips on unusual medical conditions instead of cleaning my apartment and/or writing this, so maybe not.