Of how you spent the night, waking in the vestibule of a strange apartment building an hour before work, no memory remains. You call in sick for the seventh time in a month.
·
You just need to rest. A day of healing and rest. Around midnight you find yourself in a Thai karaoke bar down the road from your sister’s house. You vaguely remember Norman Mailer writing that scotch is for people who’ve given up hope, and order one. Midway through your second, watching a stoned girl and her catatonic friend wander listlessly through I’m a Believer, you have your first panic attack.
You’ve always known you’re unremarkable. But now, on your day of healing and rest, curled up on the bathroom floor, you’re spectacular.