You ever just… hit a wall? Like, a REAL wall. Not the kind you talk about in a quarterly earnings report, some strategic "challenge" you just gotta optimize your way around. Nah. I’m talking about a brick wall. A concrete slab. You just… run into it, full tilt, and everything goes quiet except for the ringing in your ears and that dull throb behind your eyes. That’s me right now. Two AM. My father just finally stopped asking if I fed the dog for the fifth time, and my damn phone is still pinging with emails from London, asking about that merger. Jesus. I just wanna… not do anything. Not fix anything. Not be responsible for another damn living thing. And you know what the worst part is? You just sit there, staring at the perfectly curated shelves in the extra bedroom, where all my girls are lined up. Gene Marshall in her midnight blue gown. The original Barbie with the zebra swimsuit. Even that rare Effanbee Honey doll, the one that cost more than a small car. They just… stand there. So perfect. So still. They don’t need feeding, they don’t ask for help with their insurance forms, they don’t have a sudden existential crisis at 3 PM on a Tuesday. And then you feel like a TOTAL FUCKING LOSER because your greatest comfort, your sanctuary, is a room full of plastic women who never age, never complain, never need you to BE anything for them. It’s pathetic. It is. And you know it. Sometimes you just wanna scream, “DO YOU SEE ME?!” But who the hell are you screaming at? The empty air? The sleeping house? The collection that cost you a fortune and means absolutely nothing to anyone else in the world? You just… swallow it. You always do. And then you get up, because the sun will be up in a few hours, and someone’s gotta make sure Dad takes his pills, and someone’s gotta be on that call with Hong Kong, and someone’s gotta make sure the goddamn world keeps turning. And it’s always you. Always. Every single time.