I am looking at my hand on the granite counter and it doesn’t really feel like mine. It’s 2am in the suburbs, totally quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional AC kickin on. I’ve got this habit of disassociating, I think that’s the word. I look at my life—the two cars, the kids at state school, the aging parents I gotta check on every weekend—and it feels like I’m watching a movie about a middle-aged woman who has her shit together. But my shoulder is killin me tonight. It’s a specific kind of mechanical failure. Every time I lift my arm to reach for a mug or whatever, there’s this audible CLICK. A dull thud in the joint.