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Bluelight Crew
It seems that taking care of my itch has caused more scratching than expected. My euphoria engine expels its byproducts through nervous bleeding, firing out a physical scratch festival and all of my fingernail were invited, much to my chagrin. The rogue chemicals are forcing me to treat my skin as a thousand turntables, screeching out an irresistible beat I'm going to regret.
What worries me more, however, is this unexpected wariness of nothing, waiting for something to go wrong for its own sake, much like an oversensitive smoke detector going off. It's as if I were in ancient tombs, ready for traps and danger in the comfort of my own home. It's an emotional paranoia, really. My logical analysis knows that my insane gut is jumping to grasp at straws that aren't there, all the while hoping to the end that I'm wrong. And I probably am. But I can clearly see that one scratched itch always leads to another,
What worries me more, however, is this unexpected wariness of nothing, waiting for something to go wrong for its own sake, much like an oversensitive smoke detector going off. It's as if I were in ancient tombs, ready for traps and danger in the comfort of my own home. It's an emotional paranoia, really. My logical analysis knows that my insane gut is jumping to grasp at straws that aren't there, all the while hoping to the end that I'm wrong. And I probably am. But I can clearly see that one scratched itch always leads to another,
