Self-inflicted wounds—these were the ones I wanted to cause. My nineteen-year-old self was still, after all these years, alive and kicking somewhere, desperately wanting to slaughter me or pitch my body into a very dark hole. I smiled for the camera. A grinning domesticated animal. By the time we reached the bottom, the picture would have been posted to Facebook and “liked” dozens of times. I’d be expected to “like” the “likes,” and the friendship of sheep would continue unabated.
