The thing about writing a newsletter about a mite bite going septic is that part of me thought, part of me really thought, that writing about it would sort of ward it off.
If I write about it, it won’t happen: if I publicly acknowledge that the bite on my wrist is going septic, then surely that will appease some freak mite god? Surely that will mean it’s not really going to go septic? When I try to explain my interior cosmology like this it always sounds beyond stupid. And yet! That’s what it’s like in there! That’s what it’s like living in this brain!
It can’t go septic, not really, I reasoned; because that would mean I would need to do something about it.
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