There are two tiny scabs on my head behind my left ear. I pick them until they bleed and then rest the back of my left hand on the wounds. By the time I finish bleeding, my index and middle fingers are stained with blood. I go to the sink, wash my hand and wait for my head to scab up again. This creates just enough physical pain to distract me from the emotional pain, but not enough to cause any extreme discomfort. This is the best I can do right now.

I think about smoking cannabis but it fills me with anxiety to use substances when I am numb or in emotional pain. I cannot decide if my avoidance is a form of self-love or a form of masochism. I find this day to be intolerable and I do not wish to have many more like it. But for now I have the scabs to look forward to.

The thing I hate about cooking burgers is that they splatters my glasses with grease and forces me to have to clean them. This is apropos of nothing. Sometimes saying thing is simply a way of gauging where I am real or not. It is a poor test since, philosophically speaking, it holds very little water.

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