and that therefore all such thoughts were wasted moments in a life composed of a definitionally finite set of such moments.
I even tried to tell myself to live my best life today. For the longest time I couldn’t figure out why something a stranger had written on the Internet
to a different (and deceased) stranger was bothering me so much and making me worry that there was something inside my brain—
which really did hurt, although I knew from years of experience that pain is a blunt and nonspecific diagnostic instrument.
Because there had not been an earthquake in Papua New Guinea that day, my parents were all hyperfocused on me,
and so I could not hide this flash flood of anxiety. “Is everything all right?” asked Mom as I ate.
“Uh-huh,” I said. I took a bite of burger. Swallowed. Tried to say something that a normal person whose brain was not drowning in panic would say.
Is there broccoli in the burgers?“A little,” Dad said.Pretty exciting that you might go to Amsterdam.”
“Yeah,” I said. I tried not to think about the word wounded, which of course is a way of thinking about it.
“Hazel,” Mom said. “Where are you right now?” “Just thinking, I guess,” I said.
“Twitterpated,” my dad said, smiling. “I am not a bunny, and I am not in love with Gus Waters or anyone,” I answered, way too defensively.
Wounded. Like Caroline Mathers had been a bomb and when she blew up everyone around her was left with embedded shrapnel.
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