Problems? What Problems?

The panic hit and I was rambling.

"What if it was stupid? You know? Do you think it was? Why do I always have to worry about stupid shit like this? What's wrong with me? Do other people go through this kind of shit or what?"

I thought Baron, the photographer, was listening. But when I turned to face him, I found he him slouched in the sports writer's chair. He was rubbing an orange baseball against the top of his head with a blank expression.

"Baron! Are you even listening to me? Well it's obvious you don't think my problems are important."

Baron blinked twice and looked at me, still rubbing the ball against the top of his head. "Huh? What?"

"What are you doing with that ball? Don't you care about my problems?"

"Oh. I don't know. Problems? What problems?"

I dropped my face into my hands and burst out laughing.

Funny thing. I forget what I was worrying about.