I think maybe this isn’t what you mean, but I still feel a quiet ache sometimes, remembering that party. It was so loud, I had such a terrible migraine already, a true prodrome. But my roommate, she just, she really needed me to go. I don't know why I couldn't just say no. It felt like... like if I didn't, it would confirm something about me, something about my inherent unsuitability for, well, for regular life. For having a muse that paid the bills, maybe. It’s funny how those small things, those little denials of self, they just… accumulate.