Ham Shank

I tried to downplay the whole tardy excuse today with a mentor of mine that wanted to meet up with me. This whole thing about surprise calls are hardly surprising anymore. Something has to happen with me eventually, and this is one of them. It was half past six when I left my place after a lazy afternoon. Every little thing connected to this week has been about laziness, up to the point of tidying, eating, and even sleeping.  I twisted my brain a bit through overthinking, trapped in a labyrinth of self-realisation. That part of me is prematurely evident through my actions. It shames me to watch myself in reflections and still images. All those captivated horrors are seen as evidences of disgust. All it does is reinforce my dissatisfaction. That whenever I stare long at my hands all I wanted to see are rough patches and signs of hardwork. It's not even smooth and yet I despise it down to its carpal bones. Then I realise something unusual, something that has been plaguing me my entire existence. That my right hand carries an omen that I have yet to decipher. That whenever it bends my palm creates an unusual straight line that I rarely see in others. It does not indicate something special, but it whispers to me stirs of echoes that are hard to ignore, not even noticing the stain of oil on the fingertips from the slab of meat beside my left hand now and an empty bottle of ginger beer with its contents now slurring and forming spheres of adipose deposits in my guts. My eyes drifting away from the screen signalling the fatigue, almost forgetting the shamed mentor left in the dust. Then I realise who really is shamed. I close my eyes to fall asleep.

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