Emotions can ferment and rot in your insides. They can spoil at the bottom of your stomach, unvoicable. They can block your bowel movements or give you diarrhea; they can sit at rest somewhere in your intestines and keep you from getting effectively drunk. They can keep the coffee from working, or force you asleep before you’re tired like a narcoleptic. They can make the food taste like metal and make your stomach rumble and make you wish you could breathe fire. You can let them sit there inside you OR you can vomit them out. You can scream in punk bands, or along to Black Flag records. You can ease them out with osmosis, or by hanging upside down in your closet. You can coax them out with paragraphs written on a park bench, like this one, and afterwards notice how you feel better than any running, excercising, or yoga could ever make you feel. You can forget about them and hope reading the news, or having a boyfriend or girlfriend, or staying very busy with mildly repetitive tasks can help. Or you can sit down and try to untangle them—choking and pulling them out from your throat like entrails, and laying the yards on the table, smelling like a dead animal; a jumbled, nonsensical mass of life lived, gradients of positive and negative experience—unanalyzed and hopeless. These are things we have to sort out for ourselves.