Today, for the first time since I started this challenge, I
thought: good lord, what have I gotten myself
into? I’m sure there will be many more days like this in the next 342, but
today is different. It isn’t so much that I have nothing to say, it’s that I
have no brain from which to beg an idea.
It seems the consequences for spot removal are dire: the
prescription that finally cured my pestilent rash has left me mentally destitute.
The side effects I am experiencing are common to this drug, but no less distressing.
My mind is much like a set of malfunctioning automatic doors that open and
close repeatedly. If it’s quick about it, a thought may escape through the narrow
closure, but then finds itself stranded on the other side. Its other, less
adept counterparts are too sluggish to make the leap, and, thus, the cheese
stands alone.
Bitterly alone.
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