Nothing.The waitress returned. “I am sorry, how did you want that cooked?”Chicken? I didn’t know what the hell she meant.She broke the pause, �...Medium, or well done?”I figured I better be safe. “Well done will be fine.”“Well done,” she repeated. “What kind of cheese?”Still lost by her questions, “Uh, provolone or swiss.”“Swiss cheese. Okay. Thank you.”I really wondered what was going to show up for lunch. At ten after one I still hadn’t seen anyone and I wondered if this was going to be just a. I may not have suffered as much as people in Africa or other hellholes like that, but… at least they are capable of feeling happiness. Compared to them, I’m broken, and these tumors are the proof. I have felt the bite of a blade to try and cancel out my inner pain with outer pain. I have felt my sanity ripped away by years of sadness. Depression is more than sadness. It is the inability to feel joy. It’s a missing foundation, like a building with a sinkhole where its fourth cornerstone should. More

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