So, I blog now. 

I'm Riley Trueblood. Yes, that's my real last name. No, not like the TV show. Yes, I already told you, that's my real last name. NO! NOT LIKE THE TV SHOWUGH!

I'm 19. My birthday is 9/29/92 which means something really extraordinary in numerology but I've completely forgotten what it is. Some lady from Hospice Care told me, but I didn't listen all the way because she smelt funny.

My roommate is talking to his girlfriend about how he farted earlier! It's making me laugh, but I have to be quiet because they don't know I'm here and too much time has passed for me to just be like "Hey guuuuuys, I've been here for a while. I heard the whole farting bit.", so I'm just staying in my room. With the lights off. And trying not to click the keys too loudly. Or breathe.

I lived in Utah for the majority of my life, and contrary to popular belief, it's actually a great place. Yeah, yeah, yeah, there's a lot of stuck up religious people, and even more stuck up non-religious people, but I pretty much liked all of them anyways. Mainly I loved the open air and the mountains. And the tall boys. And Judd's Candy Shop. And the excellent drug scene.

No! My phone went off and I think they know I'm here! Now they think I have been spying? Now they think I have left my phone at home? Did they even hear? Should I pretend like I was napping? Noooooooooooooo...

I moved to New York about four months ago. I can try to summarize my experiences here, but there's not much I can say that would really... I can't find the words... It's just that... listen guys, this place is crazy.  I've been blessed by a man dressed as a woman. I've been so lost that I was certain I would never find my way home. I've been hit on by more than one NYPD officer. A man on the subway called me a cunt! And then this other guy punched him in the face! I was kicked out of a dorm by a bunch of nuns. My ex-boss was definitely trying to have sex with me. I've been homesick! I've been homeless! I've been reported to H.R. for discount fraud. I have heard some of the most beautiful music in the world at 14th street, Union Square come from a flute that I am confident was made out of paper. I have seen feces under a bench. I've seen a naked human under a bench. I've been surrounded by angry protesters. I have fallen in love with my new baby nephew. I've been hit by a car! I have received drunk calls from a Lucas Johnson (on more then one occasion). I have overheard confessions of love. Been conned. Been taken in. Been accused. Been cutting my own hair. And it has been genuinely overwhelming and undisputedly difficult at times, but I am happy.

Now it is troublingly quiet in the other room, which leads me to believe that they are getting handsy and that they never actually heard my phone, which makes me equally as uncomfortable as them hearing my phone. Or me clicking the keys... Or me breathing...