"I'm pretty sure Mexicans enjoy things more than me," I admitted to the man, picking at a cowlick of fine white thread jutting from the seam of his black leather pseudo-sofa. You know the things I mean -- those stretched out chair/couches, like the limousine version of a recliner?

"Why do you think that?" The therapist replied. His pen scratched dryly across an unseen pad.

"Anything I'm doing -- I don't know, it just seems like if I look back, two feet to my left, there will be a Mexican over there enjoying it way more than me. Like, say I go to have a beer: There I am, blank, vacant, but kind of vaguely happy. I turn my head, and three stools down there's a Mexican guy, just loving the shit out of his beer. He looks like a beer commercial. I swear to God he exhales frost after every sip. He's enjoying that beverage so much it's just pornographic, you know? And the worst part -- do you want to hear the worst part?"

"Go ahead," the man frowned down at me as I continued plucking nervously at the stringy outcropping.

"It's not even a better beer than mine. It's a goddamn Coors or something."

"Maybe you'd like Coors better."

"Maybe I'd- no! Fuck Coors."