I mope. I overeat. I lay facedown on the countertop for twenty-two minutes, each of which I count methodically.

I watch Back to the Future II to get out of my head and there is something in that epic music, the way the flux-capacitor lights and pulses as the Delorian is future-bound, and by the close of the final scene I’m off the couch, up the stairs, and back at the desk.

I write one more scene. It feels orgasmic, meaning the sentences had been building for far too long, and they finally broke open on the page.

My, how life stretches in the most painfully, beautiful, awkward ways.

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