Four months of wallowing in embarrassed depression should be enough. I’m beginning to realize that no one is who they seem to be, and my life story might be spinning out of my control. It’s time to take a shower, put on a bra, and wear something other than sweatpants. Difficult, but doable.
With my friends—real and imaginary—by my side, I need to edit my life before the elusive darkness comes for all of us.
The plot is no longer fiction. It’s my reality, and I’m writing a happy ever after no matter what. I just have to find the write hook.