Everything talks to me, the back of my cereal box. It tells me to “be” the best I can be. Yes, it uses inverted commas. Find my inner Zen, outlines what Asian cultures have been doing for thousands of years for enhanced hearts. The fine print tells me that I’m itchy all over and pens cover my floor. The guilt the back of my cereal box brings me is insurmountable. Here I have been for the past two days, out of commission. Though not completely turned around. Just incapacitated. Eclectic, arguing about elephant coat hangers, telling my mother I’m moving four days before I move. She took it incredibly well, not even under the circumstances. She says I’m more mature and a lot less naïve than she was at my age. I was always such a Good Person, she says, more than a hint of disdain in her tone.