I’ve felt very exhausted by the pandemic this month and I know that’s not a unique experience. The realization that we have been doing this for almost a year really hit me hard and every sentence that stuck out to me in February seemed to jump out because of how I could relate it to the loneliness/fear/monotony/etc I have been feeling for what seems like…. forever.

For the past year, I have been tracking every book I read by writing elementary-school level summaries for each of them. They are brief, including only the title, the author and a sentence that usually starts out with “I loved this book…” or “I did not like this book…” and there are a lot of them because, in addition to reading very, very fast, I am also one of those very, very annoying people who refuses to stop a book partway through, even if I absolutely hate it and complain about it the entire time.

On our first date, late in the night at a cocktail bar in East Village, he kisses me so suddenly after hours of conversation that I can’t breathe.

I didn't live at Chang's apartment the first time I spent the night there.

It was the beginning of my second year in the city and a snowstorm was on its way, ready to completely shut down Manhattan. Because ZG and I both knew from experience we were not equipped to handle a storm alone (the last time it happened, he'd had only two eggs and a container of mustard. I had chips and a bottle of bad wine), we left our homes on the Upper East Side to spend the storm stranded in Serria's Chelsea apartment.

The first time I noticed the lump protruding between two of my left ribs happened to be the same day I decided I needed to break up with my boyfriend of four years.

Back in August, I had a date that I came thisclose to canceling -- partly because I had never actually met him in person and I'm always a little bit terrified of being stabbed on first Internet dates, but mostly because it wasn't scheduled to start until 9:45 on a Monday night.

"That's my bedtime!," I told Serria, my roommate who refused to listen to my excuses even though she knows I prefer to be either asleep or aggressively watching Netflix before the clock hits four digits. Like a true friend, she all but pushed me out the door of the apartment, eerily similar to how she'd once forced me out of a cab almost two years earlier when I was starting to get cold feet about confronting a dude who had ghosted me.

I've been confident I'm a hypochondriac since my junior year of high school, a year I spent fully certain I was pregnant despite the fact I had never had sex.

I've written about deeply personal topics on my website before, but this was harder to actually put out into the world because it's about something I've never really discussed with anyone, let alone the entire Internet. And, that's because this is about body issues, the way I viewed myself and, oddly enough, the relationship I had with food.

On the day my ovaries exploded, I was home alone at 7 a.m., crumpled face-first on my hardwood floor, unable to even make a sound because I was in so much pain.

The Friday before the Whole 30 began, I invited myself over to Zach's apartment as I sometimes do because I wanted to drink one glass of Spanish wine while I ate my Dos Toros bowl, a Chipotle-like concoction I would not be able to enjoy in its full capacity once our program began. I was very intent on staying for only one drink, but seeing as nothing ever goes as planned with Zach and I, I did not leave after one glass.

After too many vodka tonics and not enough food, that Friday night ended with me continuously and violently sobbing to Zach in a cab from the West Village to the Upper East Side about how "I think I'm too pretty to be this sad about a boy who wears camo cargo shorts."

On the first day of my self-proclaimed month-long hiatus from men, I woke up in a boy's bed...

...So, like, yeah, I guess you could say "No Boy April" did not begin with as strong of a start as I had originally hoped when I'd verbalized my decision to take a break from men to Serria and Zach just days before.

First, you'll make me afraid of losing you. For two months, three months, your calculated displays of affection will overjoy me, will keep me up at night with a smile as I remember the words you spoke, the kisses on my forehead, your hands pressed gently on my throat.

When Zach Groth and I both went through semi-devastating non-breakups within the same week of each other, we handled it as any mature adult in New York City would -- by attempting to drink $300 worth of wine while eating pizza rolls and making a four-hour long Spotify breakup playlist.

I think I lost five pounds the first day I joined Equinox, but I'm pretty sure that's less due to working out on their fancy machines and more because of how high my heart rate skyrocketed when I saw the actual cost of a year-long membership.

When I met Zach Groth's parents for the first time, they asked me what the best part of living in Manhattan was and the answer rolled off my tongue without effort or thought -- "Your son's job."

Zach and I moved to New York City within a few months of each other and both started out at different jobs than we currently have. I actually started at TIME the same week he started at his new job, so I'm sure there will be a grand celebration for our one-year work-aversary at probably (and by probably, I mean definitely) Barfly because we're both very lucky to have landed positions we genuinely enjoy.

In theory, my New Year's Resolution was simple -- each and every day, I wanted to write. Months or maybe even years ago, I'd purchased a simple, leather-bound black notebook. Aside from the occasional grocery list or jotted note on something I'd like to tell my pen pal, it went largely unused.

So, I started dating again.

Well... let me rephrase that. I tried to start dating again. It turns out it's really hard and not quite as fun as I remember, though that's likely because the last time I was dating multiple people it was because I wanted to, not because I had recently found out the guy I was seeing was also seeing other humans and then I too felt pressure to maximize my options.

The last time I cried over a boy was my senior year of college. In the middle of formal, my date decided to go home with one of my sorority sisters and, so, I traveled to Dill Street (RIP) where -- through my tears -- I intoxicatedly kissed Zach Groth, his identical twin brother AND the man who made me soup every day at the Atrium within the span of 35 seconds.

It was not my finest moment.

For almost every year since I've had my personal website accessible to the rest of the Internet, I've written some sort of "end-of-an-era" piece. Whether the occasion was graduating from college or reciting the 13 things I learned in 2013, I've always enjoyed wrapping up information into bundled lists.