The rest of my drink was flavorless. No matter how many times my posse repeated their sound advice to “get over it,” my brain would not cooperate. In my head, I chided myself for responding fast and furiously, rather than taking a moment to collect myself and leaving a phone message. Perhaps a less-crazed phone message. I ran into Ame and her husband, Lloyd, in the theater. After greeting them, I was horrified to hear myself blather the same confession in person with which I had, minutes earlier, attacked her phone. After I’d given Ame and Lloyd a bigger glimpse of my insanity than they needed to see, I returned to my seat, defeated, wishing I had taken one of those little yellow pills.