I’m not the grieving type. Funerals make me uncomfortable to the point that I become irate. I don’t cry when I hear someone, other than an animal, has died. My average reaction to death is a heartfelt, “Oh shit.” It was no difference when my ex, who I was still very good friends with, committed

I sat at the kitchen computer in my school uniform, trying—and-failing—to ignore the telltale sound of my dad’s slow shuffling as he ambled towards the fruit basket and picked up a small orange. I hated myself for this then (and I despise myself even more now) but being surrounded by his