I’m just not myself at the moment.
My face is like a mask upon my face. It’s not just the velvety growth (real? or imagined?) nor the lavafield (which has in fact subsided quite significantly), but something other than all this, a certain coarseness of the skin, the strange unfamiliarity of which strikes me every time I cast an anxious glance towards the mirror. Who am I now? What have I become?
I took an interesting quiz today to determine the sex of my brain, wondering if perhaps this could shed some light on the supposed torrent of testosterone flowing through my veins. The results were inconclusive, other than an alarmingly one-dimensional sense of space and an almost sociopathic lack of empathy.
However I was pleased to learn that us right-minded folk may make exceptional artists and fighters. If there’s one thing I’ve always wanted to be, it’s a fighter.
That’s when I realised the truly ironic aspect of it all. There’s really nothing I’ve ever wanted more than to be a boy.
