At the table you played along, like when Angela explains how she shows up drunk to therapy. But at my turn you disappeared. I guess you didn’t want to hear the new face among all the rest assimilate to your pretense. Or maybe you’re a lot like me; you dress your pain in irony just to make it through each day. Oh…I’d love to sit and talk it out, but the words go stale in my mouth. This is all for show, because everyone here knows we need our friends for more than just cheap jokes. And when the drinks have run dry, what comes next? Do we read aloud from Syvvie Plath? Pin-the-tail on Diane Arbus photographs? Is this my fate? To watch you all degenerate…to scoop up your doodles of me for your posthumous auction at Christie’s? Chorus. So when the sun settles to sleep and our seritonin is in retreat, we could put the drunks to bed and confront our real fears instead. Or…well, then…maybe next year…