Ever have the feeling that something deeply wrong has been lodged at the bottom of your esophagus for days, weeks? Like you're just waiting for whatever it is to surface and destroy your composure once again? Like you're trapped in and by your worries for other people and yourself, so intricately intertwined?

Someone whom I'm lucky to be getting to know better looked me in the eyes today and said, "Taylor, you're such a happy person." I smiled and said, "No. I'm really not."

Thinking about: Shortcomings, Ghost World, and other graphic novels detailing lives of quiet desperation.