"I'm pretty sure Mexicans enjoy things more than me," I admitted to the man, picking at a cowlick of fine white thread jutting from the seam of his black leather pseudo-sofa. You know the things I mean -- those stretched out chair/couches, like the limousine version of a recliner?

"Why do you think that?" The therapist replied. His pen scratched dryly across an unseen pad.

"Anything I'm doing -- I don't know, it just seems like if I look back, two feet to my left, there will be a Mexican over there enjoying it way more than me. Like, say I go to have a beer: There I am, blank, vacant, but kind of vaguely happy. I turn my head, and three stools down there's a Mexican guy, just loving the shit out of his beer. He looks like a beer commercial. I swear to God he exhales frost after every sip. He's enjoying that beverage so much it's just pornographic, you know? And the worst part -- do you want to hear the worst part?"

"Go ahead," the man frowned down at me as I continued plucking nervously at the stringy outcropping.

"It's not even a better beer than mine. It's a goddamn Coors or something."

"Maybe you'd like Coors better."

"Maybe I'd- no! Fuck Coors."

You. Fuck you.

"That's just an example. It could be anything: I could be stuck in line at the grocery store behind a lady trying to use expired coupons. I'm standing there getting half an ulcer, thinking, 'You can't haggle

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the unceasing forward movement of time, goddammit! Pay the 15 cents extra! I'll kill you! I'll wipe your seed from the Earth!' Then I glance back, and three spots behind me, there's an old Mexican woman -- even farther back than me -- just smiling away. She's not even doing anything. She's just looking at the mints, smiling. What the fuck is that? Does refreshment amuse you? What is it about those packaged breath fresheners that could possibly be making you happy? This bullshit is burning irretrievable minutes of your life, same as mine, and you don't even have as much time left. Why aren't you here, unhappy with me?"

"So you have problems with Mexicans?"

"No, that's not it. I just want to know what they're doing different. Clearly, I'm doing something wrong. Go out on a sunny day and walk around for a bit. I promise you, you'll find a group of Mexicans all just standing outside, talking to each other, laughing. They look like how I picture nostalgia. It's like there's an 8mm filter over them. Yet when I go stand outside to talk to people, I get bored in five minutes and go back in to read webcomics."

Pictured: Life, lived to the fullest.

"It sounds like you need to reevalua-"

"Black people are better at conversation."

"What?" The doctor blinked up at me, I could hear his dry pen still trailing, a sound like dragging a cinder block down a dirt road.

"Black people never have to worry about making conversation! They just open their mouths and start going, and it's great. It's friendly, it's easy, it's totally relatable. And I don't mean just to each other -- to everybody! I talk to any given black person and it's always the best goddamn conversation I've had in months. It's fantastic. Everybody loves talking to black people. But I open my mouth at a stranger and it's like I'm vomiting out awkwardness onto their shoes. Just an endless stream of 'ums' and 'ahs,' and then I start saying shit like 'ostensibly.' It's a screeching vocal trainwreck. Or-"

"I think the theme here is a lack of confi-"

"OR," I said loudly, barreling through the doctor's interrupting syllables, "or worse! People say, 'Howdy' on the street, and I shakily whisper, 'Good, and you?' And that's