Women like me tear their hair out over things like this-- calories in peanut butter the bit that’s left on the spreading knife after your sandwich is stacked and sliced in four neat triangles (you already dipped the corners in bleach) Blood in your toilet bowl from vomiting too passionately your esophagus is eating itself up (you don’t go to the doctor, you don’t even tell your mother) A clogged kitchen sink the disposal blades wound tightly with the spaghetti you poured out like tight little worms (you blame your roommates for the mess) And the quiet ache of every muscle that refuses to relax when all you want to do is sleep.