I can see the water begin to percolate in her eyes, but with a scrunch of her nose she shoves the tears back into their ducts before they drip- if they did they'd be decaf, the precipitant of her hyperactive live. She can't cry because she knows she has to be a jester, the weight of everyone's giggles are on her shoulders. My advice starts at 'that sucks' and moves to 'just deal with it'. What I really want to do though is to slap her and hell at her to take a look around her $$$,$$$ house and shut up.

They say that money won't buy you happiness, but how many people below the poverty line need Zoloft? If given the choice between eating and happiness, I think I'd take the steak over the shrink everyday of the week (maybe not Friday if I was Catholic). I think that 9-to-5, a full stomach, and an empty mind ain't that bad. But I guess those millions of blue pills and decades of angsty suburban music prove me wrong.