and
cozy
office
on
26th
and
Broadway
that
week.
I
was
hell-‐bent
on
getting
out
of
there
as
fast
as
I
could.
For
someone
out
of
options,
I
should
have
been
more
graceful
and
grateful
to
be
there.
Instead,
I
was
bitter
and
self-‐righteous,
a
lethal
combination.
Someone,
namely
my
neighbor
who
set
my
building
on
fire,
did
me
wrong
and
I
wanted
her
to
answer
for
it.
Brian
didn’t
say
much
of
anything.
"You
know,
my
dad
was
a
therapist,”
I
said.
“So
I
know
how
all
of
this
works."
"Great,"
he
said.
"Tell
me."
Brian
wasn't
afraid
of
me,
or
my
opinions
about
his
profession.
I
was
forced
into
the
corner
of
honesty,
my
entire
BS
narrative
laid
bare.
This
wasn’t
about
the
fire.
Sure,
it
was
a
catalyst,
but
I
was
there
for
deeper,
seedier,
older
reasons.
I
was
there
for
the
reason
anyone
ever
goes
to
therapy—to
confront
the
injustice
of
the
genetic
lottery
and
find
a
way
to
make
the
best
of