I am about to walk a mile and a half in 20-degree weather to buy a bottle of wine from the nearest grocery store because I am losing my mind and I need to cool it down. Then I am going to walk a mile and a half back and begin a writing project that, given the unprecedented level of productively stemming from my absolute pitch-black ninth-cirle-of-hell despair, I will likely finish by morning.

My life is like the random item block in Mario Kart. It is flipping through possible future scenarios at a million miles an hour and it is making me sick.