Grrrr. I hate when I get scratches on my arms that look self-inflicted. Worse, I can't for the life of me remember what I just scraped my arm on- I know it wasn't me, and I don't think it was in the car, but it could have been any of a number of pieces of furniture that I klutzed myself against.
You have Prozac, so wouldn't people who know about him assume he did it?
Eh. Maybe. I'll be with friends, but the thing is they know I've been stressed. To make it perhaps more complicated, me and another friend have taken to wearing arm sleeves that cutters sometimes use to cover themselves up (or I did, anyway), and I'd wanted to wear some today, but now I have to wonder if I wear them and them take them off later if they'll think I was trying to hide the fact that I fell of the wagon. Argh.
Funnier still, last time I was on campus I picked up a pamphlet on cutting to see what the Mental Illness Can Be Solved By Reading For Ten Minutes and Smiling About It police had to say about it, and it was sitting right on my computer desk. (I'll chuck it or something, I guess; it's pretty funny, but it's not the most hilarious pamphlet I've read from the counseling center. At least one of them, I was able to crack people up pretty badly by doing a dramatic reading- I think it was a self-esteem one.)
Oh, on the plus side, I figured out what I cut myself on; it's a part of the conputer desk that has a metal edge. I must have been reaching funny.
