I am a millennial. Generation Y. Born between the birth of AIDS and 9/11, give or take. They call us the global generation. We are known for our entitlement and narcissism. Some say it’s because we’re the first generation where every kid gets a trophy just for showing up. Others think it’s because social media allows us to post every time we fart or have a sandwich for all the world to see. But it seems that our one defining trait is a numbness to the world. An indifference to suffering. I know I did anything I could to not feel. Sex, drugs, booze, just take away the pain. Take away my mother, and my asshole father, and the press, and all the boys I loved who wouldn’t love me back. Hell, I was gang-raped, and two days later I was back in class like nothing happened. I mean, that must’ve hurt like hell, right? Most people never get over stuff like that, and I was like, let’s go for Jamba Juice. I would give everything I have, or will ever have, just to feel pain again. To hurt. Thank god for minor-league Fiona and her herb garden. One advantage of being kind of dead is that you don’t have to sweat warning labels. There was this one brown liquid that I thought made my nipples tingle for a second, but I think it was psychosomatic because I polished off the rest of it and didn’t feel shit. I tried every eye of newt and wing of fly until I found something that made me not look like Marilyn Manson anymore. And that’s the rub of all this, isn’t it? I can’t feel shit. I can’t feel anything. We think that pain is the worst feeling. It isn’t. How can anything be worse than this eternal silence inside of me? I used to not eat for days or eat like crazy and then stick my fingers down my throat. Now no matter how much I binge I can’t feel the soul inside me. I can’t take it anymore. I think I’m going bat shit. I need to do something.