Back in the day I used to find satisfaction in talking about the little shitty things that happened to me. The red light that ruined my date, 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, it actually hurt more that the actual events. Looking back to the events, I saw myself insulated. There were no scars, perhaps a bruise from a punch or two. The less you care, the less you notice them. The bruises.

Insulation is a solution.

The joy of telling is gone. I had enough of my cheap drama. I have new feelings to validate. I will have to make up some stories about them.

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