I pick flowers from my neighbour’s garden

I hate everyone. My coach made a note: hates everyone. I flinched when I read it back. I’m not sure what it means — maybe it’s something to do with ND. I have a ribbon I rub on my face. I’m an adult. I still suck my thumb from time to time. It doesn’t really make me feel good. Hinge profile: millennial female who frequently acts like a baby. Special interests: hating people, being alone. I can see the future. I’m in a rocking chair. It seems I’ve finally succumbed to beige and, actually, I wear it well. I am surrounded by five foxes in a cabin in the woods. Is this what I am supposed to do? I should have joined the forces and lived a life being told what to do because decision fatigue has me blind and open-eyed, staring at the wall — I’m stood in the hall with no idea what I got up for. Yes, it could be hormones. I guess we’ll never know. The doctors don’t take me seriously because I’m “not that old,” but at what age would it suit them for my brain to decay? I pick flowers from my neighbour’s garden, unannounced, and try not to get shouted at. They’re too pretty to leave alone, too pretty to let wither, too pretty not to be admired in their short lifetime.