We sat at the kitchen table, which was a new woodstock where everyone’s belongings had gathered for music and mellowing. We moved recently. Everything had to find its place or be disposed of. Nick was removing a slice of pizza from the box, and I was imagining the hydrogenated fat just fighting to get into that slice; there must be a waiting list, you must have to know someone at the door.

He explained how he and Toby tell each other things and how they both knew I valued my “alone” time. Which means most of the time I’m alone, even when I’m not. It’s how you can tell the wildly egotistical from the domestically. The wild ones, we feel our personality as some oversized camel hair coat with anvils sewed in the lining, weighing us down like wet grief. Yet all the while we’re doing jumping jacks, trying to have the most spirit. To cope with the triviality we become it.

It sounds like a cheerleader syndrome. And at some point the water has to break. We’ll be like Jessie in Saved By The Bell, screaming out song lyrics and becoming the laughing stock of an entire generation.

Because we don’t have a problem with pills. We don’t have a problem with anything, except ourselves.