You know that feeling of forgetting what it’s like to feel anything? Then, being afraid, convincing yourself that your inability to feel means you must be debased? No tears; just a never ending gulf of air in your lungs making breath torturous. That is, of course, until someone says something that makes you uneasy; something that makes you quesy, and like a sly needle to a “I’m in my happy place that deals with no emotion at the moment, please leave a message — never — after the beep” balloon, you pop. So here we are, at 1:57 am; popped.