“Are you?” he asks cryptically. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re complicated, and passionate, and terrified of the depth at which you feel things. It’s easier for you to pretend you don’t feel anything at all. A coping mechanism.” “Wrong.” I cross my arms over my chest, wishing I had another cigarette. We smoked his last two. “The problem isn’t that I can’t feel anything, it’s that I can’t feel fear. And believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve put myself in horrible situations. Dangerous ones. Short of strolling naked into a biker bar, I’ve walked some shady lines. Scared the shit out of
...more
