Recently, a zit has appeared on my right cheek conveniently right smack in graduation photo-taking season. On a black-and-white recording of my practice interview this afternoon, it showed up as a dark mole almost engulfing my entire cheek. Coupled with the sense of the Uncanny, after viewing myself from the outside and experiencing the dissonant juxtaposition of the familiar and the unfamiliar, I am left with bad psychological scars that will haunt me in recurring nightmares, forever. (Additionally, in the style of Hollywood genre conventions, I will jolt upright in bed and my eyes will immediately widen in terror.)
Loving this:
There should be something about you
in the poem. But
there is just me
being stupid.
It's by Tao Lin.
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