It’s almost three AM and I can't sleep, just replaying this whole ridiculous day and feeling… I don't even know, just really, really angry at myself, at the whole thing. Spent six hours in the car today, round trip, for my great-aunt Mildred's funeral, a woman I hadn't seen in probably seven years, maybe more. She was nice, I guess, from what I remember, baked really good lemon bars at Christmas once, but I mostly just know her from family pictures and the occasional Christmas card. And the entire time, while my cousin Brenda was up there, red-faced and tearing up, talking about Mildred's unwavering spirit and how she always had a kind word for everyone, all I could think about was the traffic on the I-5 north, if I’d left enough time to hit that sweet spot between rush hour dying down and it getting too late to actually get anything done at home. Like, my brain was running through routes, checking Google Maps on silent, calculating the exact minute I'd get back to my apartment, if I'd have time to finally sort through that pile of mail that's been sitting on the counter for a week, or if I’d just collapse. And the shame of it, the absolute, gut-wrenching shame, I could feel it radiating off me in waves, like a furnace, as everyone around me was dabbing their eyes with little white tissues and I was just… there, mentally making a list of groceries I needed to pick up tomorrow. Toilet paper, almond milk, that fancy olive oil from Trader Joe’s. It was all just so transactional, so completely devoid of any real emotion, and I felt like such a monster, sitting there in my ill-fitting black suit, thinking about mundane chores while someone’s life was being summarized, respectfully, tearfully. I even checked my watch, covertly, twice, just to see if we were close to the end, if the eulogies were wrapping up. My phone was vibrating in my pocket too, a Slack message from Sarah about the Q3 projections, and I swear to god, part of me wanted to just walk out, just stand up and leave, drive home, and get to work on that spreadsheet. What kind of person does that? What kind of person prioritizes quarterly projections over a final goodbye to a family member, even a distant one? It’s just… everything feels like a constant calculation lately. Every choice, every moment, every conversation, it all has to serve some purpose, move something forward, or I just feel like I'm wasting time. And today, sitting there, in that stuffy funeral home, the smell of lilies thick in the air, listening to Brenda choke up about Mildred’s laugh, all I could feel was this suffocating pressure to *do* something, to *be* somewhere else, anywhere else, just not there, stuck in that moment. And I guess that's why I'm still awake, staring at the ceiling, because it felt like a betrayal, not to Mildred, not really, but to myself, to whatever part of me used to be able to just… feel things, without immediately turning them into a task list or an efficiency problem. I don't even know what I’m supposed to do with this feeling now. Just feels like this tightness in my chest, this low hum of… disappointment. And a little bit of anger, yeah, definitely anger, boiling just beneath the surface.