The process known as “growing up” is riddled with Pandora’s boxes. The negative of every circumstance becomes more and more visible, and you have to accept it if you want the positive, too—be it in a friendship, an opportunity, or listening to an album that might do something to your breathing for a moment instead of keeping you up and busy. I used to accept the negative by believing it would all one day pay off as material for my EGOT-winning body of work based on the horrors of my life and personality, making it all worth it. I used to scheme, basically. But bad experiences are no longer a means to an end for me. Since I became especially enamored by Stevie a year ago, they have become enough for me all on their own—certainly acceptable, and even invigorating. As difficult as it is to convince myself of this when such experiences are actually taking place, I really do think I prefer a life of emotional range to one that’s consistently happy. It’s not that I believe you need the bad to appreciate the good—as Dave Foley says, pie does not taste better because somebody somewhere has AIDS—but I do believe that there’s a difference between happiness and fulfillment, and I think the latter is more for me.