<p>Twisted nerve</p>

I liked myself best at my breaking point — before depression became anxiety, before hectic became haggard, and before reckless youth became wearied maturity.

Of course I realize the spitfire came at the price of suffering, but I guess the day has finally come when I long for those aimless kisses. Once upon a time, I took everything up a notch (scratching more than a few into my bedpost along the way) and lived like there would be no tomorrow. But several tomorrows later, all that lust has died out like a distant bonfire shrinking out of sight on a moonless night. Smothered, I suppose, by the suppressive air of adulthood... careers... responsibilities... regularly scheduled contributions to retirement plans. But somewhere... somewhere in that far-flung past lingers a catastrophe waitress with no employee benefits, pouring coffee with such hostility that it steams with resentment.