You don’t owe the Internet sh*t.

A lesson in personal essays, shilling your pain and living with it.

A page from a zine won from artist and author Rubyetc, around the time I wrote The Bathtub.

It’s a cold night at the end of January. You’re in your last year of University, back at the house you live in with six — then five, then suddenly six again — housemates, and you’re not well.

You haven’t been well for a long time. Over the Christmas break you’d been…