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I often forget that with one exception I have never, ever, ever been happy with another living thing in the room. I hate speaking—I wish I had been born mute because the anxiety that’s been tied around my neck as long as I can remember makes everything come out wrong. I wish I hadn’t been Narcan’d. When I finally fucking die, don’t be sad. When I was 4 years old my father screamed his fucking head off at me because I wouldn’t smile for a picture—I don’t think I’ve ever been happy, I just forget sometimes how mean this world is, and those moments don’t really justify anything else. When I die I’ll forget that I exist, and I’ll finally be alone, and the only person I’ve ever loved won’t be afraid of me anymore.