Back in the day I used to find satisfaction in talking about the little shitty things that happened to me. The rude driver that told me off, or the grumpy cashier that made me feel inapt.

The rotten things at work, that really validated my depression. “It isn’t me, it is the world! It’s my luck to be surrounded by cretins. Why are all these things happening to ME!?”

Last time I told the shitty stories of the day, they actually hurt more that the actual events. The less you care, the less you notice them. The shit. Insulation is a solution.

The joy of telling is gone. I had enough of my cheap drama.

I have new feelings to validate, new stories to tell.

I, I, I, drama king, will rule the day.

Insulation is a solution.