Everyone has problems. No one wants to hear mine. No one cares if I woke up as a giant bug this morning.
I wish I would wake up as a giant bug.
My problems are never clear. It’s not what’s happening to me right now, but the whole history of what has ever happened to me and the persistent nagging conviction that all the bad that has ever happened before will recur, all of it at once.
My problems are evil and conspiring to repeat simultaneously, to end every shred of happiness I’ve ever stored up, at precisely 25:01 on the 33rd of Novembruary, or some other time.