I’ve never had enough spoons. To dig my way out of any deficit or even to fill a glass half full. To ferry the mystic medicinal magic of chicken soup for the battered soul.

If you could have one skill, what would it be? I’d make someone fall in love. A Midas touch alchemized into Cupid’s arrow destined for somewhere just north of bare minimum.

I wish my psychiatrist approached my functional insanity like a priest performing gurney-side triage.