Stream of Self-Consciousness

They’ll notice the hair on my arms…

That time in sophomore lit. when the word of the day was hirsute and I shrank into my sleeves as much as I could while Jenny Khala stared at me. “I’m cold” I said with that ugly, low voice I get when I forget to force it up an octave or they’ll think I’m a dyke or a 60 year old chain-smoker who never finished school ‘cause her arms caught on fire when a lit butt fell in ‘em…

That Saturday at Ross trying to find a long-sleeve shirt you can wear in the summer without sweating. "Achem, I burn easily,” I said with that Lesbo phlegm gurgling underneath. That clerk probably doesn’t sweat. She smells like strawberry lip gloss. I smell like Mentholyptus and Nair…

If I move my desk further away from Jenny will Matt thing I’m moving closer to him? Maybe I can just slouch some more…

That choir concert at the nursing home. Singing “Jump down, turn around, pick a bail of cotton” with stupid choreography. That bald women staring. Probably thought I could use some chemo on my arms. That old man looking at his respirator. Probably checking it for lint…

That night in the bath trying to shave my arms. Left cuts like I tried to kill myself but slit the wrong side. I bet Jenny Khala could kill herself with one ladylike slit to each wrist and then lie in a Bubble Yum bubble bath and die while still pretty enough for an open casket and a black, sleeveless top. I’d look like a black lab…