Repulsion runs through me, as if my veins are filled with my own sickness. Last night guilt plagued. Today frustration rules. The contrast makes me despise myself.

Snatching my purse from my locker, I head out, hoping fresh air will reform me, but nothing on this earth can make me comfortable with myself. Fighting the urge to race my stress away, I meander through the streets of Westwood and land on Sunset Boulevard. Twenty snot-sob filled minutes later I’ve traveled a whole four miles and find myself in front of Donovan’s office. I should have headed for the La Brea Tar Pits. Diving into muck sounds appropriate. Then again, I’m already neck deep.