h.b.irwin

Write a Personal Essay About Yourself.

In Uncategorized on December 12, 2008 at 1:09 pm

A king who was also an astrologer read in his stars that on a certain day and at a particular hour a calamity would overtake him.

 

I ponder egotistical implications of being asked to write about one’s self while sucking on a menthol cough-drop. 

A book opens.

A pen drops.

Deep chemical-tasting breaths. My throat doesn’t even hurt.

Because of the reservations I have about writing about myself, the task has been the rock in my shoe for weeks now. Step and it’s under my toe; step and it’s at my heal; Step and it’s at the forefront of brain screaming in full intensity that I am Egotistical. Selfish. And I love it all.

I believe the calamity of this personal statement may destroy me.

 

He therefore built a house of solid rock and posted numerous guardians outside.

 

I’ve used the past 5 minutes to determine that I will spend at least two weeks of my life changing menstrual pads. It’s a point I am glad to have discovered.

This has become a usual pastime of mine. How long do I spend spreading butter? Pumping gas? Chewing on my tongue? I once informed my mother that if cigarettes truly take seven minutes off of one’s life, then by the time I was ten she had unlived some odd three years.

Marbolo Menthols, please.

She was not pleased with my findings.

These numbers are safe. Fixed figures to describe my time use in immense detail. Who am I, you ask? I am 30 years asleep. I am 2 years urinating. I am an entire life relived in statistics and rounded variables.

 

One day, when he was within, he realized that he could still see daylight. He found an opening which he filled up, to prevent misfortune entering. In blocking this door he made himself a prisoner with his own hands.

 

My own hands, covered in small lacerations from different timely sources: a cat; a blender; my pockets on a cold morning. That is the one that gets me. The top of my knuckle shaved off by rigid denim and an icy climate. 

Not because of the absurdity of the wound, but because I feel as if I live in an egg shell. All contact is felt through the prophet of my encasing: something I have devised myself. 

How can anything hurt me now?

I am terrified to write this not because I am terrified of self-examination, but of external examination. What will the knocker find when I open my door? So piece by piece I gave up my peace and constructed a casing of glass around myself and lived in this concave world.

 

And because of this the kind died.

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