You’re mad at me. You’re convinced that I dropped in to fuck up your day. I did not. I did not drop by to fuck up your day. On the contrary, you are ruining my day, and truth be told, my day sucked far worse than yours before we even got out of bed. You’re so worried about your pain that it doesn’t even occur to you to think about mine. You hurt right now. You may hurt for another hour or two. I hurt constantly. All the time. My breathing never slows. My eyes never stop watering and burning. I am nauseous constantly. My knees are always weak. My forehead is a constant slick of cold sweat. My temples beat deeply, drilled in with plastic, serrated knives. This is every goddamned minute of the day for me. So you can hate me and curse me all you want because I fucking loathe myself. I’d like to jump myself off a bridge into a shallow riverbed littered with pointy stones. But you know what, jerkface? I’d push your ass off before me. Because you’re the one keeping me here with your stress and your late nights and lack of sleep and your shitty diet and your seven Dogfish Heads before bed and your two hour crying jag over your pussified broken heart. If you would take a few goddamned deep breaths and do some yoga and eat some kale, you could release me like a sharp breath on a white, puffy dandelion head. All my pieces would let loose of the center and float off across some peaceful prairie. If you let me go, I’ll break into a million little pieces.