I hate networking mixers. Like, REALLY hate them. My stomach gets all twisted before, like a damp rag being rung out, and my head feels thick, like I got cotton balls shoved in my ears. I gotta go though, for work. My boss, Mr. Henderson, he says it's "crucial for future prospects" (whatever that means, probably means getting paid enough to like, actually fix the leak in the kitchen ceiling). So I go. And when I get there, it’s like someone flips a switch inside me. All the quiet stuff, the wanting to just shrink into a corner and watch, it goes away. Instead, I’m… loud. Like a broken radio. I laugh too much, a big booming sound that doesn't feel like mine at all. My hands are flying around, talking with them, even though I usually keep them shoved deep in my pockets. I’m asking all these questions about people’s hobbies and their vacations and stuff, pretending I actually CARE about Brenda from accounting’s pet parrot. And the whole time, it feels like there’s this other me, this tiny one, trapped inside my head, just screaming. She’s watching the big loud me, like a bad movie, and just curling up smaller and smaller. It's exhausting. By the time I get home, usually past midnight, I just crash. My throat feels scratchy from all the fake talking, and my face aches from smiling. I look at myself in the mirror and it's like looking at a stranger. My eyes are all dull, like someone sucked all the color out. And that deep shame, it just washes over me, thick and heavy like old motor oil. The kind you gotta dump out the back of the garage cause you can’t afford to get it recycled. It makes me wanna just disappear. But then tomorrow, it's back to the grind, back to making sure the numbers add up so we can make rent. And knowing I'll probably have to do it all again next month, put on the costume and pretend to be someone I'm not, just to keep the lights on... it makes me feel so hollow. So EMPTY. Like a shell.