All of us are painfully aware of the fact that none of us should get along. Pax is the spikiest, angriest, poutiest guy I’ve ever met. The chip on his shoulder is glaringly obvious and kind of sad, really. Dashiell’s spoiled rotten and so hopped up on Valium and Xanax that his world is fluffy and so mellow through his medicated rose-tinted lenses that he barely exists in the same plane of reality as us at all. And me. I’m the recluse. The pressure cooker. The guy who hardly speaks, whose skin begins to itch if he has to say more than three sentences in public, in fact. Who hates almost
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