As I type this, I have a most uncomfortable and ill-fitting piece of tissue wound around the middle of my left index finger. Just now as I was trying to open the foil covering off a bottle of orange flavoured lassi, I took out a steak knife to cut out the foil. That knife never really did cut well, I think my mother bought it for like $1 with some other badly made and flimsy fork with a wooden handle, but it grazed my index finger. I didn't even feel a thing, I just looked and saw a small line of red forming against whiteness.

I felt a bit sick and dizzy after seeing it. I went to wash off the blood, but even with the blood gone I still felt a little light headed. So I headed upstairs to hide and now sit here typing and feeling even fainter.

I remember in Sec 2 when I sat next to Angeline in class, she had this black file covered with lots of pictures. One was of Marilyn Manson in some freaking red/yellow contacts. That picture used to weird me out every time I saw it, and for some reason he reminded me of Darth Maul. However the picture which sticks most in my mind was this picture of someone sticking out their tongue and using a razor blade to cut their tongue. There was blood too. Angeline said it was photoshopped, but every time I saw it I felt really faint. How I survived sitting next to her file is kind of beyond me - but I recall us having to change seats in some mass reshuffle and ending up next to Ianthe.

Last year when I kicked the glass door, my first reaction was to close my eyes. I felt something wet on my foot and didn't want to know what it was. I kept my eyes closed through out journey to the hospital. I felt the wetness spread down to my other foot, and with every erratic sharp turn (which basically defined the entire ride there) I felt some sort of wet liquid following down my body. I tried to think of how it wasn't blood, maybe it was an uncapped bottle of water. I didn't open my eyes till we reached the hospital and my dad carried me out, and even then I was staring at my surroundings. I remember lots of white interior and my dad shouting frantically, then frantic nurses as I got dumped into a bed, but I don't remember any blood at all. I managed to avoid seeing it.

Once I cut myself in the shower. I think I was Sec 1. It was a really small superficial cut and I remember trying not to freak out. The blood oozed out a little, and I started to feel really faint. I sat down on the floor with the water still running in order to try and regain some sort of strength back. I somehow managed to crawl out of the shower and run back to hide in my room. Afterwards the bleeding had stopped and I showed it to Mama and she put a generic plaster on it.

I never really understood those plasters, they're supposedly skin coloured but I have yet to see someone with that shade of skin. They always stick out oddly, badly camouflaged. Every time I have one on my person I always think how it looks like some sort of lab manufactured synthetic skin and have to resist the urge to rip it off, like something is trying to take over my body. Then on the other hand I enjoy the feeling of it on my skin, the snugness of a mini-hug. It feels cosy and comforting, like a treat.

This morning I finally finished reading Plath's The Bell Jar. Her style of writing detachedly and the entire plot quite bowled me over. For some reason it really reminded me of Miranda July. Superficially, that is possibly one of the oddest comparisons one can come up with because one lady is clinically depressed and longs to die while the other is filled with love at life. Some of the things I noticed were similar is how there is a lot of introspection about life in general and deriving comfort from small things. (I was about to type something here, but I just realised that Miranda July might be more depressing than I originally thought.) However I must confess I often swing between both ends of the spectrum - live life love life and a morbid want to just lie down somewhere and die, sometimes within mere hours of each other. They really aren't that dissimilar after all, they both involve feeling - shed loads of it, till it gets uncontrollable.

The part of the book that chilled me the most was around page 155 when she contemplates committing suicide (out of multiple times) by opening her veins while floating in a bathtub. The imagery made me sink down in the couch and feel like I was going to black out. I felt really sick and disoriented, but a desire to clear reading that part made me press on. At the end of that episode (a grand total of 1 page) I felt quite worn out, yet felt like someone out there understood me. Which is probably not a good sign, seeing who that person is.