Someone should’ve asked me if I wanted to be born. It’s not fair to come out your mother’s belly without a clue, without being able to walk and gather berries. Without having to suckle her breasts for too long before you can suck on some other nectar.

I’ve had friends who claim to remember being shot down to earth. Friends who felt their souls injected into their bodies.

I wish I felt something, but the penchant to hold in my pee is the only thing I got. I hold it, till it hurts, till I have to walk swiftly down halls and almost burst at the sight of a toilet. The relief is as gratifying as a warm shower. I like to pee in there too. Womb fantasies.

Who knows why I do it, really. I mean, I can put a symptom on it, like any self-aware American would, in order to make some sense of it, to name it and tuck it away. But I like complicating shit. I like making things appear far more important than they are. Instead, I’ll pay some neatly paced psychotherapist to give me her opinion. Here’s my 15 dollar copay. Now tell me what the fuck is wrong with me.

Make it quick, about a year, and make sure that the residue is wiped clean; I’d hate to do extra work after all those visits.

I would have loved to have been privileged enough to end up at mental hospital. I’d love to have been poked, pricked and nurtured. But that costs money, and I had laundry to do and the parents had rent to pay.

Weren’t my rampant, lively masturbation sessions at church some kind of clue that I needed help?

I don’t know, maybe I hid it well and made it all look normal. I’m trying to make sense of it in hopes that I don’t keep pointing my fingers in blame, though I love having an excuse to be angry.

I’m a leper; a tender tainted thing. I can’t see what you see, because what you see is wrong. My pain is too big too immense, and the fear of commitment is too real. I’ve lost the sense of what it is to be human and I’d rather die now than later.

Dramatics are my thing and I tend to indulge in them like velvet. I’m struggling with that peace, I’m struggling with all these hugs and whistles aimed my direction. Soft arms melting at my hip. Apple gifts from Hungarian workmates hoping to make amends. Two floors full of neurotransmitters running amok. I can almost feel it on the fibers of my skin. Still, it’s my 38th year and my cells have regenerated and I’m not the same person I was seven years ago.

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