Down for the count...

My body is sick. To be alert of one's body is a weird thing to experience, but I feel it. Not that, "I'm dying" feeling, as I usually discuss. But in the sense that I am ill. I feel warm, my lymphnodes are swollen and I'm more tired than I usually feel. So much in fact that I skipped the gym without feeling regret or remorse. I did later in the day, but that's a different tale.

I woke up this morning and put the finishing touches on my abhorrent lighting design project. Just let me pass, I don't care if it's a C or an A, but let her give me sympathy and see the time I put into it. Let her take pity and say, "Well, this was his first time." I don't care.

My two days of debauchery have taken their toll. It's interesting to think that I have sexed myself into physical pain. Some may see that as a form of masochism. I feel it as purging, I shudder to think of what the inside of my lower region looked like the day after. It wasn't pretty, but it felt so good.

Was I that built up, that the moment I could let it out. I wanted to be rammed so much that I felt pain? Apparently so? Thus forth I am taking the pain that comes with it. I am eating the fiber pills and using the suppositories until I heal again. Then we'll look at life through different eyes, now won't we?

I wake up this morning and immediately thoughts of The Tall Man and our impending meeting comes to my mind. It saddens me, and thus the tone for the day is set. Yet, I know that I need to be more positive! I need to realize I shouldn't beat myself up over it. It's hard to think of looking into his eyes and seeing that he's pushed me away. It's hard to think about ever trusting again. To ever meet someone intimately that I can trust. See how the mood of the day gets set?

I arrived late to school in order to deliver a poem I wrote yesterday while stressed and under influences. It was performed smashingly well, everyone loved it. I have a voice, it's time to figure it out and let the world hear it. It's a goofy poem that was in response to a friend mocking my haircut. Against my own judgement I'll post it. It's more a goofy first draft (this strong black woman reading):

In Response to My Hair
By E.Iguana

Don't move for a moment,
I need to talk...
Friend, dear friend...
Obviously we aren't good enough chums
Or you'd know there are somethings
You just don't say.

There are three things on this head,
Three glorious parts, that if mocked,
Will decree war on the neighboring countries.

First, my lips. Second, my nose. And third, my hair.
To learn about the other two, try and offend another day.
As for now, you shall learn how deep these roots grow!

My hair will be with me,
Longer than any lover has yet to stay.
My hair has been every color on the,
Blond to Brunette scale.
From bleached to burnt,
Not a stranger has died in vain!

My hair has more waves
Than any ocean you will swim.
Like a vast blond pit of quicksand.
If you were to fall in, it could be
Hours before you fell out.

This blond is real!
Each strand,
Like a snowflake
Never the same in hue.
On the left looks dark,
To the right it's blinding!
Doesn't matter because I
Only like when people look,
Head on!

At that point-of-view,
I can't tell what you'll see.
Except a tall yellow pillar of strength!

So dear Friend,
Next time you fire off blanks like that.
Take a look in the mirror and realize,
How much ammo I could fire off!
This tongue is sharp,
And most certainly cuts to the bone!

Oh and I quit smoking today...