Let me tell you a story about a girl named “Rhythm” who lived with a guy named “Anxiety”. They lived in a loft in the middle of a city in the state of Mind. I’ll start the action during their evening meal, here we go:
Rhythm inhaled another bite of Adrenaline Alfredo.
“I cooked up some Cortisol Crisp for dessert,” Anxiety shouted from the kitchen.
“Thanks, Anx. I’ll eat it while I finish up my work in the office,” she replied. She scoped up the last spoonful while she sent off the final report and crossed off the last item on her to-do list. Burrrpp. Anxiety’s cooking gave her heartburn, but it always helped her get stuff done.
He is such a good roommate, she said to herself. He considered her best interest; warned her about potential peril and protected her from possible problems at every turn. He numbed her sad emotions and kept her hopes safe-locked under reality. He served her well, she thought, though she admitted some of his habits were a bit odd...
Every night he played her a broken record of her brokenness and every night she studied the lyrics so she should not, would not, could not repeat the broken. But that broken record only ever knew how to repeat itself...