In 2014, at the ripe old age of 24, I finally got myself a girlfriend, and I was amped about it. I was in love. I was maybe even “in luff” the way Alvy Singer was with Annie Hall. I had found my lobster. I wanted to shout it from a mountaintop (in what I imagine is the gayest way possible to announce voluntary monogamy)—arms outstretched and fingers spiriting as if in the finale of a three and half hour off-off-Broadway musical.
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