When I first heard the word that would give me rage palpitations, I was sitting in a chair in a doctor’s office, quietly tearing off the label on my water bottle. When I’m nervous, I rip things to shreds.

Below me, on the ground, lies a slush of partially digested rehydrated noodles. They look like little wriggly white maggots, moving in the dirt. Either my vision is still blurry from the pain of vomiting, or the fever has finally gotten the best of me, because I swear to god, those suckers are squirming.