Earlier this year my depression got very bad, very quickly. I'd been having intrusive suicidal thoughts for a while. It was a combination of a bad medication regimen and lots of little stressorsschool, work, a car accident, you name it. I took to a very private social media account that only those I was closest to could see. I used that account to rant about my problems. It was my coping mechanism and how I kept myself sane. Somehow just typing it out got it off my chest in ways writing in a journal couldn't (now, I try to use Quora for this purpose instead). One night in early March I went to a performance that my friends were part of. I went alone. While I was there, I got a series of texts regarding my girlfriend. I knew that what those texts said would cause me an immense amount of stress and sleepless nights. I went onto my social media account. I don't remember exactly what I posted. It wasn't specific, but rather something along the lines of "I'm stressed, this is the cherry on top, I honestly don't know how I'm going to handle this." Whatever it was, someone who followed that account knew I was at my breaking point. They called an anonymous tip line and reported that they believed I was in danger of killing myself. I got home from the performance at midnight and my dad was in my driveway. I asked him why. He told me he'd been contacted and that someone reported a concern about me. I was admitted to the hospital the next day, and I spent a week an an inpatient psychiatric unit where I received better medication, therapy and coaching on positive coping mechanisms. Whoever called saved me, but in a way I saved my own life that day. What I thought was just another routine post about stress got me the help I so desperately needed. I know without it, I would have ended my own life that day. Funny how that works. He received texts regarding his girlfriend: - During the performance - Before the performance - After the performance - not enough information
During the performance

The sudden burst of spring produce in the market after a long, monotonous winter of cavolo nero and bright oranges is one of the things that constantly reminds me why I love living and eating in Italy. A wander through the market like any other becomes, in spring time, a new experience. I feel like a fresh arrival, like it's my first time walking through my local market. There are long, twisty fava bean pods, waiting to be podded and munched on with bitey pecorino cheese to tame the bitterness of the raw beans. Thin, long-stemmed asparagus. A lovely array of greens, including radishes with leaves so happy that they become the main ingredient, fluffy-fronded fresh herbs and fresh garlic. Artichokes of many different kinds, but especially the pointed purple ones that are either local, from Tuscany's Maremma, or sometimes from Puglia or Sicily. Rarely the rounded globe artichokes you find spilling out of crates in Rome, or the tiny, delicate Venetian ones, the so-called castraure (though they often aren't the real deal, how you can tell is by the price) that you can find in the shadow of the Rialto. And then there are thick bunches of agretti (salsola soda), looking more like mermaid's hair than a monk's beard, their English namesake. A few years ago, this wasn't such a common sight at the market in Florence. It still isn't, in that you won't get them by the crateful like you do fava beans and artichokes, though they're not particularly difficult to find now. They're just one of those special things that don't last long. Blink and you'll miss them, or come late to the market and they could easily be sold out. It's worth getting up and out of the house a little earlier for these (a note to myself, of course). If you've never tasted agretti before, it's worth seeking out if you're in the right place at the right time and find a bunch or see it on a menu. Frances Mayes likens it to spinach, but notes that it is so much more, "While agretti has the mineral sharpness of spinach, it tastes livelier, full of the energy... Why would the narrator get up a little earlier? - To get Monk's beard before it is sold out - not enough information - To get rounded globe artichokes - To get fresh garlic
To get Monk's beard before it is sold out

It was hot. The smell of blood already hung heavy in the air. The white sands, imported from the far west mountains of limestone, sucked up the fire of the huge red sun. It was always hot in the south desert. Even in the deep of night the stones of Gazu Kadem kept the city warm. Now, at mid-day, it was at its hottest. A quarter of a million people at the arena didn't make it any cooler. The merchants, nobles, and the slaves lucky enough to attend had waited outside Dan Trex's arena for days. They knew the value of entertainment in such a dark world. They wore cowls to protect themselves from the sun as they waited. Entire businesses thrived on the forced mercantile of the captive audience. Food went for thrice its cost to those waiting near the entrance. Water went for five times as much. The arena was as old as the city, built in the days of the old empire for a king now long forgotten. The octagonal arena was a machine, an engine that built warriors out of the raw material of flesh, blood, and steel. Now, thousands of years later, it still served that purpose. The machine had built Dan Trex's army, half a million of the most ruthless and well trained soldiers to ever walk the planet. While one hundred and fifty thousand civilians and slaves got drunk, gambled, shat, fucked, and slept on the stone steps; one hundred thousand of his men sat in silence wearing black and bronze and watching him as Trex walked out into the arena alone and unhelmed. His soldiers watched the games in silence. They made not a sound when twelve of the most beautiful girls to walk on small bare feet were raped and flayed apart by dark priests in a ritual to Gazu Kadem's god-king, Danken Ovelde. They studied the three-horned desert bull as it gored five slaves. They watched the spear technique of four slave armies as they warred in a single great battle. They watched blades of silver spray fans of red blood into the air. They watched vital organs spill onto the white sands. They heard men and women scream as life left them. They... who belives girls were raped - The narrator - civilians - 12 slave men - not enough information
The narrator