Picked first

I picked this first; I picked picking to be my first blog. I hope it was a good decision.

I continued to sit on that cold seat, staring at my bare legs...one pant leg around my ankle, the other leg, free from anything binding--save my fingers--propped up against the counter. That is the standard position to take before embarking on the exploration and then the harvesting. I say that "free" leg was not free at all--it was a slave to my fingers, and moreso to my fingernails. That leg--my right leg--was the prey waiting for its predator to pounce, and silently hoping that a second thought would change the course. The second thought came and went; the attack proceeded. 

It's all so silly really--it's monkey-like, it's a cleaning ritual taken to the extreme. Why is it so bothersome that a strand, thin as a thread, hibernating under the surface, can not be left to its rest? If I see it, it must be extracted. I've seen many, and the extraction excursions have left their prints on my legs and shoulders and anywhere else I've been able to reach. 

It's quite disgusting really. It's shameful. It triggers enormous feelings of guilt and repulsion. Yet none of these are strong enough to prevent it from happening again. So, I try religion and spirituality. In religion--in my religion--self-inflicted mutilation is "haram"--forbidden and sinful. Sitting on that porcelain seat, propping and prepping a bare leg's skin and follicles, scouting the scene, and choosing the sacrificial pore--its premeditated; it's sin in the first degree. It warrants pleas of forgiveness, and is often followed by some. 

But how many times can one ask for forgiveness for the same sin? Many times I guess...the better question is how many times is that forgiveness granted?

The answer is not one to be relied on. The point is there should be no more scavenger hunts to repent for. 

It's not a phase; it's not something to grow out of or away from. It's obsession; it's sin. And I will pray one more time--I'll whisper the words right onto my finger tips (those same blood-thirsty cannibals that devour their own kind). I'll calm them and show them the ways of gentility and care, and sway them away from prodding and picking and digging. 

That cold seat became my confessional today. Tomorrow, it will be my pew.