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I sit at my desk and stare at myself sometimes. I get bored between calls, so I just sit and examine little imperfections I can find, on my arms, legs, any exposed piece of skin that is readily accessible. Sometimes I'll make new discoveries, like a small ingrown hair, ready to be pushed out, and sometimes I'll find old marks I'd forgotten about. Like the small scar on the inside of my wrist. About half an inch long, and barely visible, it reminds of a grumpy fourteen year old, confused and self destructive. I wasn't into the pain, and I was never much of a cutter. The self destruction made me feel more mature though, and that was something I desperately wanted. "Creative Maturity" was a phrase I tossed around a lot, walking around our suburb, sneering with my friends. Having stumbled through a very brief but intense bubble of alcohol and drug use at a young age, by my freshman year of highschool I had become a die-hard adherent of the "straight edge" lifestyle, although I still smoked cigarettes, which I can't remember how I justified. So, given that I could not drink myself to death, I chose to start slicing, and the fact that I still bear the scar is a testament to my determination. I do not scar easily. I won't say it was a cry for help, but I certainly wasn't shy about it. My flirtation with cutting myself lasted the better part of three years. It's fun to look back on it now. Now that Cynicism has replaced idealism. Now that concern has replaced depression. Now that "laughing my ass off" has replaced ambition. I can look back now and start to giggle about how sophisticated I felt reading William Burroughs, even though I had no idea what the hell he was talking about (and still don't). I can sit and tell my friends ridiculous stories about how I would try to put myself to sleep with candles still burning all over my room, wishing they would catch my room on fire, and thereby convincing myself that I was plagued by the same demons as Hemingway and Joyce. And all this, while listening to Limp Bizkit.