Date: Thu, 27 Nov 2003 23:20:54 -0500

When I was nineteen, I drew my face on a piece of paper and then drew a complicated geometric design over it. I wanted to cut the design into my face and then rub ashes into the cuts, so that I would heal with a mask of black scars and no one would ever see my face again, only the scars.

Around the same time I wanted to cut my breasts off, and I did try to slice into those to rub in ashes but with both projects I was far too much of a wimp to make any real progress. Just as well, with the face. I've never had much manual dexterity and I would have been pissed if I'd made any of the lines crooked or anything. The scars probably would have revealed as much as they hid, anyway.

I ended up sitting in my dorm room puncturing my arms just enough to draw blood and calm me down, leaving no scars and no patterns.

In all the time since, though, I don't know that either the face or the breasts have ever done me the slightest bit of good.

Michelle

It's hard to cut down into your own breasts, they're too soft. It's also very hard to build a small and undetected fire in a dorm room. Or anyway it used to be.

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