I'll go back to work on my new anti-depressants.
Have dinner with my parents, persuade them that I'm back to being the normal one who never gives them any trouble. Then one day, some guy will ask me to marry him. I'm mean it's enough, it will make my parents very happy. In the first year we will make love all the time, and then in the second and third, less and less. But just as were getting sick of each other, I'll get pregnant. Taking care of kids, holding up a job, paying mortgages, it'll keep us on moving keel for awhile. And then about ten years into it, he'll have an affair because I'm too busy and to tired and I'll find out. I'll threaten to kill him, his mistress, myself. We'll get past it and in a few years he'll have another one, but this time I'm just going to pretend I don't know 'cause somehow keeping up a fuss just doesn't seem worth the trouble this time. And I'll live out the rest of my days, sometimes wishing my kids could have a life that I never had. Other times secretly pleased they're turning into repeats of me.

I'm fine, really.