New York

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Today is a good day in New York: it’s blazing hot, I found a place with affordable coffee near my new place, and only once did I have to sidestep day-old vomit on the sidewalk. Success!

Maybe I should start again. In the few months that I’ve lived here, I surprised myself by coming to love New York — albeit in the complicated way that you love a best friend who is all sorts of awesome but goddamnit does he have to chew everything so noisily? — but I never actually expected to like it. You know how some people have those fantasies (read: delusions) about a place? That if they move to New York, they will instantly become Audrey Hepburn beautiful, develop a cast of Friends friends, and finally make it big?

I didn’t.


Quarter-Life Advice


It was my brother’s birthday yesterday, and in lieu of actually being in Toronto to celebrate with him, I wrote him a blog post instead. I also realize that as he hits 25, he might be hitting a quarter-life crisis — although let’s be realistic, with Eric’s track record of doing stupid things in the name of science or entertainment, there’s no way he’s making it to 100. (Actually, on one of Eric’s birthdays a couple years ago, my dad remarked, “I have no idea how you’ve made it this far, Eric. Really, I have no idea how I’ve made it this far.” Which sums up the Moller boys nicely.)

So I’ve decided to use Eric’s birthday as an opportunity to parrot back the most valuable wisdom he ever shared with me, for anyone who might be facing one of those quarter-life crisis moments.


They will see us waving from such great heights
‘Come down now,’ they’ll say.
But everything looks perfect from far away
‘Come down now.’ But we’ll stay.

             – The Postal Service 

We’re up in the clouds, right at the edge, feet dangling through the wisps of moisture. I can see the city several stratospheres below, hurrying on. Pedestrians swarm sidewalks, cars hum impatiently at lights, skyscrapers claw endlessly for us.

“Do we ever have to go back down?” I ask lazily. Overhead, a spattering of stars lays scattered, holes punched in a velvet curtain.

“No,” he says. He’s lying on his back, tracing constellations in the night sky. “But we will.”

The V Word


“You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug.” — Sara Bareilles

When I first became vegetarian, I was around seven years old. Anyone who knew me back then can attest to the fact that I was not only stubborn and willful, but I was vociferous as well. It wasn’t a good combination. I wrinkled my nose at steaks, refused to wash any dishes that had been touched by “carcasses,” and brought up PETA videos at dinnertime.

I was just a ball of fun, let me tell you.