Termite Parade by Joshua Mohr

Part One: What Went Wrong

Meet Mired

There were days I felt like the bastard daughter of a ménage à trois between Fyodor Dostoevsky, Sylvia Plath, and Eeyore.
Days pungent with disappointment.
Days soiled and hoarding blame.
Allow me to offer some evidence: about 5 a.m. on the morningafter my last birthday, I was on my knees in front of the
toilet, leaning over it and looking down at the water, waiting to throw up again. I stared at my reflection and could see myself so clearly. My life in the toilet. I was right where I belonged.