Fine is the suckiest word
it never tells the truth

Andrea Gibson, Panic Button Collector

When I was a depressed teenager, my mom always asked how my day was. “Fine,” I’d say.

It was never fine. And it still isn’t. I’m never just good, or okay, or alright.

This is not because I can’t be, but because I choose not to. These are words devoid of real meaning, happy noises we make towards each other.

No. I refuse. This world isn’t happy, and while I may be on it’s roller coaster of joys and sorrows I can’t sit there and nod and smile and spackle up my flaws that make me real.

I probably should. I probably should swallow my fears and pain and grin and nod. Nobody wants to hear how I am, they just ask for it every time they see me.

I’m afraid, though. Afraid if I start swallowing my pain again I will vanish into myself till how I am doing is an event horizon beyond everyone in this universe.

Including myself, a walking smiling void, all teeth and shadows and eyes that don’t have anything behind them anymore.

One that’s doing fine, thank you. And you?