In the end, at least the beginning of the end, I figured the only thing to do was not care at all, to have a collosal underappreciation for everything that was not beautiful or didn’t bring me joy, to dance through the city lights and listen to my music and pass everyone by, in synch with the natural rhythm of my life or to stay at home, lying on the couch, sipping coffee in blissful comfort. The ugly words could stand on their own, by themselves. The criticism could wait in the corner or on the stage, and I wouldn’t bat an eye or buy a ticket. Life was too short to worry about something as insignificant as trivial people. It had been in my experience that there was only one responsibility on us—ourselves—and it had been my learning that if we managed to do that right, everything else soon followed.