And there, once, we found ourselves.
Sweltering in the heat of July's dampening boredom, we exaggerated accusations towards the pests, the heat, the smog, towards everything but ourselves. Instead, we sweetened our drinks with quiet resentment and pressed the glass against our cheeks, relishing the coldness, the opacity, the bittersweet aftertaste of our heart-swelling discontent.
And where this displeasure led was further and further away from the cruelty of knowing. Instead, a dense wall of whiny resentment, turning obese by accusations.
"You're sick," she said.
"It's never as fun as you think."
