Struggle. Conversations with Other Women.

I suppose I do have a choice. I could get a grip and stop reading things into things.

Or, I could let my bad body double take over my entire life.

I could give in to her nagging voice in my head, dredging up reminders of hurt, desperation and pain. She has an evil advantage. She is one of those rare creatures who knows how and how much I flinch at a certain specific, pathetic eighteen year old. And she plays dirty. She's been unpacking those specific memories, and shoving them, metaphorically of course, in my face.

I should be more vigilant, she tells me. More... suspicious. Less gullible. Less about the here and now. Remember, Remember she warns, that midnight in November. The excruciating pain. The entirely pathetic pleading? The drama. The pain.

I shake me head in an attempt to dislodge her.

I know she's only somewhat right.

I'm no longer eighteen. Much has happened since then.

Oh yeah? That's why you're here is it? she scoffs. Talking to me?

She's angling for the baser me to take over.

Do you even remember what happened next?

I cringe. I remember only too well.

It was, after all, where I learned to freeze-dry.