I keep a little mint tin in my locked desk drawer at work. Inside are a few Vicodin, left over from when I broke my foot falling off the top bunk during basic training—dumbest thing I ever did, really. Some nights, when the spreadsheet numbers blur and my lower back feels like a rusty hinge, I just pop one. Does that sound pathetic? After years of "embrace the suck" it’s just… a quiet little escape, I guess. I don't even think about it much, just reach for it like a second nature.