I feel like this is essay is going to be like one of those therapeutic letters you’re supposed to write to someone you’re mad at but never send. I do that a lot, I have over 800 emails in my Gmail drafts folder composed to people I’ve been mad at since 2007.

Your life becomes a constant progress of trying to sleep at night and work during the day — at least until you realize the utter impossibility of that endeavor, until you surrender to the fact that you’ll wake with full intention at 11 a.m. and instead spend four hours gazing at social media for some purpose you’ll justify to yourself somehow.