Black Bile

I am smothered by a greasy, dusty film that seems to coat and recoat my entire person and the phlegm in my throat has taken on impossible solid properties. I am making cheese in my throat, a sort of paneer or tofu or sponge cake that tastes awful and even has a distinctive odor. It is distinctly unappetizing and I find occupying my own skin to be loathesome in the extreme.

I can feel hair growing on my back and on my hands and I know that shaving my body will only make it worse. The hair will not stop growing and I cannot stand it. Everytime I grimace in disgust I can hear my lips crack and I tongue the deep cut inside my mouth and wallow a little deeper into this nauseated and gnawing misery.

I trimmed my fingernails last night and they are sharp and sensitive and uneven and my ear itches. There is a patch of dry skin behind my ear and I am afraid that I am turning into some kind of reptile. If it spreads I will seek employment with a circus, but only if they provide me my own accomodations; I could not stand to bunk with fellow freaks and I am unashamed to say so to their theoretical faces.

My mouth is...gummy. My tongue is cleaving to the roof of my mouth and I can feel strings of viscous mucous stretching between my teeth. I need to rinse my mouth, but the thought of parting my lips wide enough to even sip any sort of beverage is causing the cracked and tender flesh to squeal--YES, I SAID SQUEAL!--in protest. It is true; my lips have taken on properties of rusty metal and I can hear the most awful and silent squealing when they brush together.

I'm tired and I miss my mother.