Today I found the stack of photobooth pictures that used to adorn my fridge. I stared at them for a good 10 minutes, unable to recognize the constant in all of them. That hair, those good times. Whose are they? Certainly not mine. I feel like I'm staring at a dead girl. The people in these photos have gone on to do all sorts of things- some have moved away, some are having babies, some are in love now. Some are out of love. Some I see more, most I see less. I am the same. I died in September, and now I'm just waiting to be born again.
I don't recognize myself when I look in the mirror, either. Here, I am totally alien. Bald like a baby, except for blond downy hair that seems to be sprouting up everywhere. I wonder if I will be blond now. eep. I don't want to be a whole new person just yet.
For posterity's sake, here was my radiation burn last week:
It's so strange having a burn eat up your skin seemingly out of nowhere. Lamest super power ever.
Another effect of radiation? Laziness. My dreams are becoming too easily decipherable. Last night I dreamt I had a boxing match with death. He was eight feet tall and shrouded and absolutely terrifying. He then turned into a man that suspiciously resembled Ryan Seacrest. I couldn't touch him, lest I die, so I boxed with red knitted mittens on my hands. Thanks subconcious. I already knew that I like boxing and knitting and that I am still a little scared of death and definitely very scared of Ryan Seacrest.
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