I like being sad, which mystified her; I like it until I reach the nadir where sadness changes, as if chemically, to repulsion and selfloathing, making me wish tht I was "capable" of "handling" things instead of turning away from them in disgust until my disgust disgusts me, and my anger at my inadeuacy as a human being angers me, and all of that pure, easy, delectable sorrow gets squandered. She refused, cheerfully, to understand this, and it wasn't her refusal that was maddening but her cheer.
Nice story. No real ending, but in the pondering way that makes you stare ahead for a while, a story with enough threads to try to continue weaving, but you notice that all the plucking might make the original come loose.
