My worst friend right now is a long, green, worm. He has his tail neatly wrapped around my oesophagus, squeezes unwanted air from my lungs and eats the soft, pulpy muscle around my heart. I think he's composed of anger, sadness and a large dollop of guilt. I think I'll name him Gareth. Gareth the Guilty Worm.
(It's the do or die moment of a long-standing issue with me: clearly state a dislike of a certain person, or admit that I'm unreasonable, stop bitching about it in private and forget the whole thing).
Joanna and Dan, as usual, are my conscience. They're right: I can't keep pretending. That makes me the Bad Guy. I will say now, as a permanent record of folly: Joanna, you're right about everything, I'm sorry lashed out at you, and I could really use your advice right now. I feel sick.
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