Every single time I place the final 2,000th piece on the puzzle, I think the same exact thing: why the hell did I just waste a hundred hours of my life on this? I could have actually done homework assignments, or made friends, or helped somebody,.. but no, I carefully went through each and every piece, sorting all 2,000 of them by size, shape, color, and pattern. And for what? A giant collage of cardboard with a photo on it which would have taken me five minutes and five bucks to buy a print of. But there’s something inexplicably calming about puzzles. The anger, the frustration, the backaches and headaches, where I lean over an isolated basement table for hours on end only to put together ten or so pieces. Each piece I find, I then question for seconds (which add up, ya know?). I occasionally applaud myself, feeling the fierce gratification and calm in knowing that from here on out, the probability of me choosing the right piece gets greater and greater. But at the same time, I feel more and more disgusting about the fact that all I’ve done that day is eat ritz crackers and assemble an intricate cat’s paw. And this is not a one time experience. This is tens, twenties, maybe fifty puzzles by now. Each one, me battling the feelings of anger, excitement, loneliness, pride, and shame. As I move the pieces back and forth, analyzing which end could go where, I start to memorize them one by one. My eyes become a surgeons as I know exactly where the blue, purple, and yellow piece, that has the scrabbly pattern in the left corner, and that tiny black dot in the center is placed. I start to forget about things. My mind becomes one with the colors. I start to form personal bonds with each piece, like the yellow ones which are a comfort to find, yet the pink ones make me want to rip my hair out. I start to question everything now. Maybe in the map of all black pieces, a single one is out of place, and my goal is destroyed until I find out which of 500 I misplaced. Why did I fail? Why do I choose to fail? Why do I like failing? My shoulders start to feel twisted backwards and weak, and my elbows have to weigh me down to the table. My exhausted  neck extends over the table. I try fifty or so all red pieces, trading one for another, strategically pairing each and every edge and gap. But my eyes become blurry. Am I crying? No, I’m just days awake and fainting while conscious. I need to finish this, tonight. It’s 4am and that history paper no longer exists once the clock strikes 3. I need to find that one last piece, and then I can sleep. I need to, or else I’ll wake up incomplete. It’s easy, I tell myself. All I need to do is divide the red pieces into patterns, and then take each and every pattern in it’s own pile and sample one by one, one by one diving those piles into smaller piles, those smaller piles... then take the smaller piles into trades with one another, and as this happens I can divide the other colors one by one and trial each and every pattern, each and every pattern, edge by edge, corner by corner, and then map them out in a square, comparing them one by one by one by one by…. It’s now 6am. I look down at the table and see twenty more pieces or so in order than last time I gazed down. I need to leave for school but I have nothing to show for my classes. Why do I choose to fail? Why do I like to fail? Do I like it? Why do I do puzzles?  Where can I get another?