text:  Part of me wants to be like my most favorite of well-written, ragey, literary anti-heroes, the ones described as unlikable in book reviews written by men, and just go royally screw some stuff up unconsciously, but I feel so irreversibly conscious. And also, I'm just tired. When I try to imagine running into my husband's girlfriend, the best I can muster is a hot stare, maybe like a shaming head shake.