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We collect our senseless mistakes in our hands and we clutch them to our chests, knowing they’re now ours and ours alone to carry. We don’t get to hand them over to some alternate version of ourselves, in some alternate Universe, and ask him or her to lighten our load. Alternate-you and alternate-me has his or her own burdens to bear; ones we know nothing about, and never will. Because as much as we like to idealize these alternate versions of ourselves, none of us can ever be certain that they’re worth envying at all.
—Heidi Priebe
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