I hate my body. You're not supposed to hate your body.
Maybe it was the suffocating humidity and ninety-two-degree weather. Maybe it was because I forgot to eat and hardly drank any water. Maybe it was the heartbreak. Maybe it was the hangover. Maybe it’s because, on a subconscious level, I’m just really fucking sick of saying yes to shit that doesn’t serve or benefit me in any which way. Maybe it’s because, on a subconscious level, I’m just really fucking sick of saying yes to shit I don’t want to do. Maybe it was God or the Universe whatever high power I doubt I’ll ever *really* believe in, punishing me for being so dumbly confident in my ability to deliver a flawless performance regardless of how sad or sick I am. Maybe my body had finally had enough. Maybe I had finally enough. Maybe it was a little bit of all of it. Maybe it’s just life. I don’t know. All I know is that I bomb the reading. And I do many things. I write. I walk. I drink wine. I workout. I drive through the suburbs and smile, blissfully blasting my suicide music as if I’m bopping along to a breezy pop song. But you know what I don’t do? Bomb in public.
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