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Swallow not the bitter pill, said he, but what a bout of misery followed it. The agitation, the grumpiness, the inexplicable tears: they all well up from nowhere and no amount of “what’s the matter with you” can help. If I knew what the matter was I’d do something about it. Not enough fresh fruit? Not enough sleep? Too much sleep? Pressures? Stress? If I knew, I’d do something about it, but it just comes from nowhere and then departs. Then I tell myself, be grateful, be grateful. I am, but I just can’t help it. So to misery guts, I reply—swallowing my well meant words of two months ago—yes, who am I to talk? It’s like the pot calling the kettle beige again. Tis the occasional curse of words.