When you stop

When you stop giving a fuck you really have to stop. It’s that moment when you might not be able to feel. That moment?  You stop. Somebody who actually doesn’t give a fuck. Someone who stopped giving a fuck when you were sixteen and still learning Spanish. That guy sees the same therapist as you. But he also has a knife. And when you have a break and think you do not care for a moment, he brandishes it. He did not care for a minute longer. Do you want your backpack, or do you want to ask nicely the man with steel at his waist where he went to school? I’ve never been stabbed. I assume it’s not fun. I accidentally cut my wrist once and exsanguinated and hallucinated and thought my ex-wife, the first person I had sex with, my mom, and her twin sister were all ten feet from the foot of my bed and waiting to see me. The police were banging at my door and I kept repeating, “I didnt do anything.” “Your neighbor saw a lot of blood.” He wrapped my arm in the welcome mat and spoke to the walkie-talkie thing on his shoulder, said some numbers, and I fainted. Those plastic wrap, non-handcuff handcuffs are remarkably effective. They won’t let you stand up for 72 hours. Even when, especially when, you think you didn’t do anything. Say that out loud and see what happens.