Last week was rough. By Thursday, 6pm, I was in a crisp white hotel bed eating nachos I ordered from the bar, trying to cry without actually crying. My eyes stung. My nerves had split ends. My heart was overwrought and had that hot and heavy feeling, like a partially burned baked potato with a knife in the middle and butter bleeding out. The nachos were amazing – the best I can remember – but did nothing to fill the void. I checked the clock. Fifteen more hours before my flight home. I reached for another cheesy chip with my thumb and index finger, which were caked in guac and…