Perfectly Mentally Healthy People

They are good to witness. They soothe and protect. To watch them do things is deeply satisfying and rewarding. I get better... because they are better than me and all the ones I can think.

She-la rides a bike to her office. It's a quaint bungalow, surrounded by squat palms and huge ferns and oaks. It's in a nice, quiet neighborhood. She is the first to get there this morning. Her three coworkers arrive within 20 minutes after her. Their names are Beck, Morgan, and Vern.

They do medical administration or some high class shit like that.

Ouside the air temperature is 79 degrees F. In the office it is 71.

Vern is 56 years old. Morgan is 32. Beck is 31. She-la is 29.

She has dark hair and dark eyes. I don't want to type her skin color.

Brown.

Except she is a white girl.

On a scale from 0 to 100, 100 being the most attracted to someone I can be, my attraction to She-la is probably about 75. It would be more, but I am intimidated by her perfect mental health. She seems too good for me.

Being fictional is very attractive.

Being me is an unrealistic advantage.

She wears dresses. Every color in her life is universally approved as visually pleasing.

Imagine a TV ad for anti-anxiety mediction.

Sometimes, when you need it, She-la lives in slow motion.

She smiles nicely.

Why give up?