I’m sitting on the floor of my parents' old place surrounded by dust and those heavy floral curtains that haven't been washed since 1994.

I’m sitting here at the kitchen table with all these boxes and a Sharpie that smells like a garage.

I am sitting on the floor of my kitchen at 2:14 AM surrounded by red paper scraps and half-empty containers of takeout because I burned the actual dinner. …

I’m sitting on the floor of my kitchen at two in the morning and I’m staring at sixteen identical glass jars of artisanal pasta like they’re going to tell me the meaning of my fucking life.