Therapists say the unconscious is the mind's "cupboard under the stairs" where our traumas, embarrassments and most private memories are stowed. I once had an actual cupboard under the stairs rammed to the door with, among other things, three broken shower heads that I felt sure I'd need again one day. "What's in that cupboard?" my boyfriend wanted to know. "Nothing," I said, fearing exposure. I felt as if the cupboard . . .
Going to the bathroom these days is an exercise that shows off a peculiar fluid grace. In one movement I unbutton my jeans, dart my hand into my pocket as they descend, pluck out my iPhone and flip it a full turn between thumb and forefinger. I sit, settle myself, unlock the phone, and open Twitter to scan for responses to the hilarious video I posted three minutes ago of a clown being used as a piñata. The whole . . .