Am I the only one who has ever wanted to actually set themselves on fire out of pure, unadulterated shame because their own body betrayed them in a room full of strangers? I’m twenty-six years old, I have a decent career in data analytics back in DC, I wear ironed shirts to meetings and pay my taxes on time, and yet here I am in this damp, windowless box in Budapest because I thought I needed a "rugged" break from the grind or whatever lie I told myself to justify not spending four hundred dollars a night on a Hilton. I’m literally sitting on a bunk that smells like old feet and disappointment, staring at the ceiling at 2 AM because I’m too terrified to close my eyes and let my subconscious take over again. It started this morning—no, it started the minute I opened my eyes and realized the entire room was already awake and staring at me with the kind of localized hatred usually reserved for people who kick puppies in public. I thought maybe I’d just overslept, but then this girl from London, who looked like she hadn’t slept a single wink, asked me if I’d considered seeing a pulmonary specialist or perhaps an EXORCIST because apparently I spent eight hours sounding like a freight train derailed inside a gravel pit. And then the guy in the bunk below me chimed in about how he actually recorded it on his phone because he couldn’t believe a human throat could produce that specific frequency of vibration...