The funny thing about the death of a thousand cuts is that sometimes you can be cut 980 times before you realize you’re being subjected to the death of a thousand cuts. In the end you’ll be cut to shreds, in fact, you already are, even as you’re deluded by protestations of love from the folks with the knives.

It’s like walking around with a wounded friendship, carrying it on your back with no idea that it’s already dead. And worse than dead, really, the corpse you’re hauling on your shoulders is actually a biting zombie intent on having a nice snack.