It was a late college night, and a girl and a boy and I were sitting around a table talking about feelings.
“That’s why I prefer more open guys,” I said to Fiona, shaking my head. “Like, so many guys are emotional clams: you always have to fuckin’ rip them open just to talk.” I aggressively mimed an invisible round oyster in one hand and a knife in the other. “I can’t spend time forcing people to open up. My arm gets tired.”
“That is so fucking profound,” Fiona gasped, her drunken, half-lidded eyes widening slightly. Prav, though, was shaking his head.
“What you have to do with emotions,” he said, “is pack them up in a little ball, and eat it. Then you can, like, stop thinking about it.”
Fiona and I shouted him down. “That stuff is not supposed to be inside you, Nav,” she scolded.
“Whenever I have feelings, I can’t stop talking or thinking about them,” I said. I tried, in vain, to express how my mind runs in such circles that it amplifies my emotions, inflates them to frightening proportions — but, once full and close to bursting, I realize that it’s just full of air. I let go; it floats away.