I don’t know if I’m normal, maybe that’s ok. Some days I don’t eat anything, but maybe that’s normal, and some days I eat enough to feed a family of four, but maybe that’s ok. and sometimes I can’t get out of bed; I can’t see why. And I stay in bed and look at books at words that are hauntingly familiar, that used to mean something, but I guess that’s ok. And sometimes I let the blade dance over my arm, the patterns I can make are so beautiful, the metal paint brush over the white canvas of skin, I think that’s ok. And if it’s not, then I guess it’s ok not to be ok.