You think you've stopped crying And then the blues come back, You wonder what brought them: The red pen? The wind in the yard? The plaid shirt in the bank? Your buried grief seeps to the surface, Like oil under tar sands. Let it go. It's the rich black residue of the past, Dead life becomes this stuff that sticks to the soles of your feet, Welling up when it damned well pleases. Let it go.

Feel sorry for yourself. Sure, your tiny steel-ribbed mother told you never to do that,But who the hell is going to do it for you?"Piangi, piangi," the old man in the opera tells Violetta. "Cry, honey, cry." Do it right. Do it yourself.

Some things you have to do for yourself if you want them done right. Ironing your favorite dress with the tricky collar, Making hot chocolate the way you like it. Feeling sorry for you. Nobody else can do it properly.

Look, it's like falling out of a twenty-story building. All your good friends, they try to puff themselves up for you as soft as possible, But they're still only couch pillows. They may save your life when you hit them,But you're still gonna break every bone in your body.