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Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Dog years

I took a shower, yet still feel terrible. Staring in the mirror, I want to smash my face into the reflective glass. There's this heavy feeling of inferiority and general disgust plaguing my mind for the evening.

We're staying in a house that has an interesting history with me: The last time I slept here, I had familiar relations with one of the tenants. When I saw the mix tape I made her in the bathroom, I shook my head. I thought about how disappointed she must have been when I turned out to not be what she wanted. If she were here tonight, I wonder what we would say to one another. I wonder if I were to sit down and have a heartfelt talk with her, maybe I could sleep with her again.

The door to her room is open. Part of me wants to go in there. Maybe see if she has anything else I gave her out in the open, maybe jerk off in her bed to mark my territory. I do neither. Instead, I pick at the cut on the bottom of my black eye, scrape the scab on my bottom teeth, and savor the metallic taste of dried blood.

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