Sometimes the morning is the loneliest part of the day. I wake up in my parents' home and it's all their mess. And in some odd, obscure way, that seems like one big metaphor for my life. But isn't that almost everyone's deal? Born into their parents' messes until we can all make our way out of it? I know it's what I'm doing. I can't wait until I wake up in the morning and it's into my own clean mess. I know it won't feel so lonely.
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