You're lying there at 11:47 PM, finally warm, finally comfortable, and your brain decides to play the greatest hits: that time in 2015 when you said "you too" after a barista said "enjoy your meal." Your body goes rigid. You're now 47% clenched. You spend the next twenty minutes constructing elaborate scenarios where that barista has somehow forgotten, or died, or never existed—basically anything except the one thing that's true, which is that she remembers and thinks about it sometimes. By midnight you've accepted that you'll never sleep again and that this is your life now: a person who wished eating pleasure to a minimum-wage employee mid-transaction.

You're finally drifting off at 2 a.m. when your brain decides to project the time you mispronounced "quinoa" at a dinner party in 2015 in full surround sound. Your eyes snap open. You're now fully awake, physically cringing so hard your cat leaves the room. You spend the next twenty minutes trying to convince yourself that everyone there is definitely dead and therefore doesn't remember. They probably aren't, but your brain doesn't negotiate.

You're lying there at 11:47 PM, finally warm, finally comfortable, and your brain goes, "Remember that time in 2015 when you said 'you too' to the barber wishing you a nice weekend?" Now you're doing math to figure out if that barber remembers, if he tells other barbers, if there's a barber group chat somewhere ranking your social failures.

You're drifting off at 11:47 PM when your brain decides to present: *that thing you said in the office kitchen in March*. Your body goes rigid. You're now 100% awake, replaying the sentence like it's the Zapruder film, looking for the exact frame where you became unbearable. Sleep cancelled. Your brain has filed this conversation under "Evidence" and will randomly subpoena it for the next six months—always at the worst possible moment, always in 4K.