This Was A Place Where

We're Called New Jersey But We're Actually The Suburbs Of New York.

The First Sip Of Beer On A Hot Day Is Like That First Finger-dip When You Open A New Jar Of Peanut Butter.

No, I Don’t Live In Heartache. I Don’t Cry Myself To Sleep Or Any Of That. I Am, I Tell Myself, Over It. But I Do Feel A Void, Icky As That Sounds. And—like It Or Not—i Still Think About Her Every Single Day.

The Ugliest Truth, In The End, Was Still Better Than The Prettiest Of Lies.

In The End, We Know What Makes Us Happy. We Also Know What Makes Us Unhappy. That's The Irony. We Know And Yet We Still Mess It Up. That's Part Of The Human Condition, No, And Why We Need To Work On It.