Dear Abby,

You are currently reading from the Trials and Tribulations of a Crazy Asian Series.

I locked the door behind me and made my way to the foyer of our bedroom.  I sat down, adjacent to the New York City skyline, popped the Goose, knocked back a glass, and poured myself another.  I took the highball in my hand and rested it against my cheek, shifting in the chair so I could face New York at night and thought to myself, “What am I doing here?”

Everything with Cole had moved so quickly – one minute we were having breakfast and the next we were picking out furniture.  I was twenty-three, working part-time at a bookstore, still shuttling back and forth to Long Island to finish up my Associate’s Degree…and yet here I was, sipping top shelf vodka in a Park Avenue apartment.

Now my thoughts began to shift towards another question, “How did I get here?”  And when I say “here” I don’t mean the apartment – I mean the person I had become.  Suddenly my life was about color swatches and furniture coordination – it was worrying about whether or not the coop board was going to approve us knocking down the beam to extend the kitchen…

Who was this person?  And better yet, who did I just lock out of the room?  I took another sip of vodka, drew my phone from my sweatpant pocket and called the only person who would have the answer.

“Mm,” they mumbled, “Hello?  Who’s this?”
“It’s Lauren…” I began.
“Lauren!  Is everything all right?  It’s late – are you okay?”
“No,” I sighed, preparing myself for the tears, “no…I’m not.”
“Aww, sweetie, what’s wrong?”

I took a deep breath, attempting to calm myself down and finally admitted, “Mom…I don’t know what to do.”

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