cool stories, bros. i dare you to tell them again.

Her smile is twisting into bitterness; she can feel it. Her lips are ticked up at the corners, yes, but her eyes glare into the red coals and smoke, watering. She can only hope her silence isn't correctly interpreted as sullen--take it for a quiet reverie on happy memories too personal to share, presume it's whole-hearted appreciative attention given to something she's forgotten how to feel, take it for anything pleasant at all--and goes unremarked by the--smug--tale-tellers.

We're happy, and here's how it came to be.

How nice for you.

It doesn't work anymore

I haven't written anything in months, and, this evening, I finally realized why.

When I write, I'm honest.

When I write, I can't hide.

When I write, I confront what's eating away at my insides.

And for the past several months, I just couldn't do it.

It's odd, too, because I've got nothing that important to hide from. From which to hide. I have a degree. I even know how I want to use it.

I just . . . haven't done anything about it. Haven't even put much effort into becoming a self-supporting adult.

I'm lazy, shiftless, and ashamed. Being honest, here. I'm not the person I want to be, not even close. Not hiding. I'm terrified. Consider that confronted.

...

I don't feel any better.