I went through a bad breakup last year. The first few months involved getting drunk and working my way through The Joy of Painting on Netflix, tearing up whenever Bob Ross said things like, “We don’t make mistakes… we just have happy accidents.”
One day I woke up and realized I couldn’t spend another minute in my condo. We had spent too much time there. I hated my bed, my couch, the patio set I only ever really used with him.
Moving wasn’t a particularly sane option. Neither was replacing half my belongings. I needed a second space — somewhere that wasn’t my house or the office to spend some time.
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