One year. A daily shot of anxiety that was extracted from my brain and is ready to contaminate yours. So, every day you pull out another vial and give yourself a dose of something to worry about. Sometimes you'll laugh. Sometimes, you'll curse me for giving you new things to fret about; situations you never even thought of. The syringe is vintage. The anodized aluminum rack holds a calendar year of glass vials to pull out, read, and more often than not, wish you hadn't.