As I lay in my bed Saturday night, listening to the shuffling of my highly inebriated aunt and my slightly less intoxicated mother, father, another aunt, and my uncle as they belt out (sometimes quite literally) unharmonious symphonies of their favorite songs from their youth a million years ago, I began to think about my life. 

I quickly found myself assuming total sympathy and regard for my state. I have it the hardest. I’m broke. I’m sick. I’m lonely. Because I am first-person limited, it was easy to slip into the state of mind that I am the most important person in the world, nay, the universe. 

Beware of this, little children, lest you truly believe it and fall in love with yourself, which could be dangerous.