I’m stuck in this sterile coffin they call Benson Michael’s, trying real hard not to lose my f*****g mind in a room that practically begs for some other poor sucker’s misery. The fluorescent lights above somehow buzz louder than the shitstorm inside my head, and the walls? Oh, they’re covered in those soul-sucking “Keep calm and trust the process” posters that might as well say “Give up now.” Yeah, fabulous.
What a shitty Christmas this turned out to be. I could literally picture Maya belting out NSYNC karaoke somewhere — the mental image creeping in and almost sending me over the edge. She’s probably laughing, her biggest problem being whether she’ll post a t****k about her new shoes, while I’m here, twelve years old and locked up because my brain won’t shut up.
And the music.
Oh my f
