You know that feeling when you wake up and you’re just immediately furious for no reason, like the very fact that the sun had the audacity to come up again is a personal insult?

You know that feeling when you’re holding something gold and all you can smell is the cheap, metallic rot underneath?

I wake up and the room feels like it’s filled with grey smoke—not the kind that smells like a fire, but the kind that just makes everything blurry and heavy.

Slaving away in that damn grocery store bakery, baking cakes for Susie’s sweet sixteen, retirement parties, whatever, while the one thing that actually makes your soul sing—an artisanal shop, just a… …