I had a friend threaten to kill herself this week because she was tired of breathing. I had a collapsing roof that needed to be fixed with haste and all of the nailing and banging and visceral management that comes along with contractors trying to make your life better for thousands of dollars. I watched a famewhore grab a spotlight and run with it, tumbling beneath his own Milo significance, falling somewhere near his pretty little lying face and whatever hair color or sociocultural mythology or, let’s be honest, pedophilia could buy him a headline.
I gazed at the moon; I stared at the ground. And for a few minutes there, I gave up. I mean I really gave up. I won’t even bring up too much of Donald Trump’s scorching of the earth here, because that’s something you all should have expected when you, oh no, hated Hillary for being a woman. My problems get lost in their own translations, and I own my terrors however weak they may be. It’s been a rough patch, to say the least.