I thought that my life would make sense by the time I was thirty-five, that all the millions of fragmented pieces (shards, really) would somehow glue themselves together, or, rather, I would glue them together. Turns out I didn’t even have the right glue; all I had was dollar store scotch tape, and nothing lasted, nothing held together. So here I am. I’m not David Bowie, I’m not even Paula Abdul. I work full time at an allegedly respectable job, and yet I live in a…
