I'm literally afraid of these dumplings. I eat dumplings all the time, but I'm not in Chinatown. I'm in Chelsea, at a cafe with a mural of Justin Timberlake in the bathroom. And these dumplings are too round, and too gingery. Too fancy. Unfamiliar doughy lumps.
That was sweet. I don't usually like strangers touching me, but he squeezed my shoulder and said, "enjoy, darling." And then, "you have pretty handwriting."
"It's the pen," I said.
Is this really my life?
I no longer just have anxiety dreams. I have anxiety foods.
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