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November 06, 2016

I woke up, repeatedly, seemingly each alarm couldn't do it.

The pain felt too immense to do anything with. Anything productive will not matter, will circle a drain and go down. My body is wracked with pain from my top to bottom. I grab at my fat and hate how it feels. It feels like the fatty foods I have eaten. I think about someone making a fat joke, apparently at my expense, but I can't tell, because people like making those jokes around people more than to them. He had the same sinister flippant sort of tone every millenial seems to have. I feel like a fat joke may as well be a joke about someone burning in Hell, because that is how it feels as I touch my own body.

I think about quitting, too fatigued to go on. I think about leaving, it seems too hard to keep up. I might sleep on the couch temporarily, so I can sleep at full length, because the shower is temporarly available. My mom evicted the person she evicted me for.

I thought maybe there was something wrong with me, that I had chronic fatigue syndrome. But I think I slept enough.
Sitting up and typing is unnatural in this car. My head brushes against the ceiling when I sit up on my sleeping pad, and I have to accomodate the ceiling. My neck bending slightly enough to be unhealthy, to hurt me, in minute, tiny ways, that will build up like calcium deposits.

I'm going to try to shower at the gym even though there's a shower here. I'm afraid of what my mother has touched. And I don't know how to navigate my fear. My fear is the house. My fear is touch. An invisible landscape of handprints.