You spend the first thirty seconds chewing gum like you've finally figured something out, nodding to yourself, fully convinced you're the kind of person who chews gum. By second thirty-one, you're just working your jaw around a small rubber tire with the flavor profile of a tennis ball. So you chew harder, like aggression will unlock a hidden flavor chamber that the gum company definitely installed and the gum definitely didn't lose in the parking lot. It never does. You end up swallowing it anyway because spitting it out feels like admitting defeat to a piece of candy.

I spent three minutes chewing what I'm pretty sure was a ghost. The gum had surrendered its flavor before I'd even closed my mouth, leaving me working my jaw like a anxious horse on a rubber band. By minute five, I realized I'd become that guy at the DMV—just masticating aggressively at nothing, waiting for *something* to happen. My dentist asked why my jaw looked so tired. I told her I was committed to a relationship that stopped being fulfilling around 2005.