I think I have a crush on the woman who lances my boils. It’s because we never joke around. Every conversation we’ve ever had, from the very beginning, has been serious, honest, direct, unironic. Usually in a hushed voice, since that’s how serious conversations are conducted. There’s an urgency there that I don’t have with any other service-providers—or anyone at all, really.

“Unbelievable, this situation down south.” ¶ “Up late, up really late, with the silent crying.” ¶ “No crying over here, just staring at the ceiling.” ¶ “The light fixture that shattered because of the people stomping around upstairs.” ¶ “Hey, yeah.” ¶ “Yes, and feeling helpless and lazy.” ¶ “Right.” ¶ “Helpless and lazy and wanting to retreat.” ¶ “Something like that.” ¶ “Wanting to manufacture a world within walls that are high and made of stone.” ¶ “Complete with crenelations. Murder holes.” ¶ [lance] [SFX: snikt; muffled scream.] ¶ “But me with my sterilized lancing needles.” ¶ “But you always finding a way to penetrate the aforementioned walls.” ¶ “Funny.”

I tell only you, diary, because I know you’ll keep your stupid fat mouth shut. I’ve got so much dirt on you, so let’s just call it Mutually Assured Destruction, and let’s keep our voices hushed, the way I like it.