Eat, Pray, Love

asks why, exactly, I think I deserve a vacation in Rome when I’ve made such a rubble of my
life. He asks me why I think that running away to Italy like a college kid will make me happy.
He asks where I think I’ll end up in my old age, if I keep living this way.
I walk back home, hoping to shake them, but they keep following me, these two goons.
Depression has a firm hand on my shoulder and Loneliness harangues me with his interroga-
tion. I don’t even bother eating dinner; I don’t want them watching me. I don’t want to let them
up the stairs to my apartment, either, but I know Depression, and he’s got a billy club, so
there’s no stopping him from coming in if he decides that he wants to.
“It’s not fair for you to come here,” I tell Depression. “I paid you off already. I served my
time back in New York.”
But he just gives me that dark smile, settles into my favorite chair, puts his feet on my ta-
ble and lights a cigar, filling the place with his awful smoke. Loneliness watches and sighs,
then climbs into my bed and pulls the covers over himself, fully dressed, shoes and all. He’s
going to make me sleep with him again tonight, I just know it.
Eat, Pray, Love