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Turning 30 in the Midst of a Breakdown
“Celebrating” an important milestone when you’re the sickest you’ve ever been is an interesting experience.
The day I turn 30 years old I spend about nine hours working at a job I intensely dislike with a couple people I have some semblance of hatred for.
At the time, the former is sadly common for me, a pattern I’ll eventually luckily break out of. The latter is not the norm at all. (I pride myself on my ability to get along at least decently with most people who give me a solid chance, until I actually fuck them over, which, you know, does still happen more often than I care to quantify.)
I can’t really tell just how much my being sick factors into both — how my ramped-up-even-higher-than-normal sensitivity leads me to unknowingly project my own issues onto these coworkers. I mean, one of the things I am most sensitive about is that a colleague has called me too sensitive. (I still think about this at least once a week, if not more.)
I leave the office and commute back to Brooklyn where I live at the time. I meet my Mom. She takes me out for dinner. We go get sushi and saki at a spot not far from my apartment. I have never been there before but it has high ratings so we give it a shot. I am so far in a hole of seemingly…
