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Dear Lorenzo, It's 7:39 p.m., Saturday night and I'm spending the evening in typical, reclusive fashion: curled up under the comforters, watching One Day At A Time on Netflix while reading my latest, long-awaited treasure, "Untamed" by Glennon Doyle. Change is hard. Losing you was brutal, obviously, and for the longest time I survived on potato chips and ESPN, all the while judging my emotional progress with scientific measures such as, how many times had I managed to peel my ass off of the futon that day or, how many "your so brave"s did I receive in a particular week. My mere existence, the fact that I hadn't jumped into the grave with you at your burial or allowed my grief to swallow me whole and block out the rest of the world, was good enough for me in the immediate aftermath of your death. But now, almost four years later, I find myself with the unfamiliar feeling of wanting more. More than just Netflix and sour cream and onion Stax. More t...