Monday, February 15

I have on my forehead these holes. They are hard holes, and each one of them is deep; it contains wood, or something that looks like a tree trunk. They are scars from spots I have scratched. They are now hard holes, I can see the tree trunk inside, I can touch it. I want to take a scalpel and remove it, but I cannot reach. I put my finger inside and I feel the hardness all around, the shape of the trunk, the depth of the hole. I push my finger inside, it is so disgusting and pleasurable, those dirty holes. So vivid, so vivid I have to touch my forehead from time to time to ensure.

P. announces to me that we are doing an opera and that I have the principal role. But I cannot sing, I say. I WILL TEACH YOU, he shouts. But, it's a waste of time, I say, extra-curricula, my arse, IT'S COMPULSORY, he shouts. It's bullshit, I say, but I know I now have to spend hours just learning the shitty lines.

I am having dinner with Mrs L. our of politeness and then look at my watch. It is 8.45pm and my class should have started at 7pm, it should now almost be done. But I am not there to teach it, I am not there, twice in one week. NOW THEY WILL KNOW I AM A FRAUD, I shout.

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