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I suck painfully at being an adult.

The other day there was a fire in the building behind us and our whole block was blocked off. It was sort of nuts. If I go out to our fire escape I can reach out and touch this building practically. Our apartment smelled like smoke and burnt tar. Sexy.

In other news, today Meredith and I went for a stroll in the market and her ankle kind of did one of those snap-twists on a crack in the sidewalk. In the minutes after her injury she turned pale, broke into a sweat, and almost fainted. It was a little intense. We nabbed us a cab and zoomed home. Meredith put her ankle up on one of our many conveniently placed ottomans and took a few Tylenol. Does being a little amused make me a bad person?