I want to chop off chunks of my hair with a blunt steak knife bit by bit until my scalp is pink and my knuckles glow pale and distinct like planks of bleached driftwood.
I want to spread paint across my back into a picture of the beach and lay on it so that maybe the scratch of the sand will itch through my t-shirt and then I can charge horseshoe ***** to build townhouses on my empty lots.
I want to eat at a table weighed down with plates bursting with steaming pasta and bowls of stark white rice stuff that will make me sick with happiness and shining like Buddha, because food is nothing more than refined sunlight.