I used to hit myself in the face. Of course, I had to be careful about hitting myself now that I was dating Sarah. One night we got into a fight and I went into the bathroom to get rid of that sick feeling in my shoulders, and I did it. I wasn’t feeling any better afterwards, so I hit myself in the face one more time. I saw something behind me.
         She had been standing there the whole time. Woops.
         She was saying, “Did you just hit yourself in the face Scott?”
         “No,” I said trying to cover it up because I knew pretty girls weren’t crazy about guys who hit themselves in the face.
         She said, “Yes you did. You’re hitting yourself in the face. I saw you and I heard it too.”
         She asked me why I did it.
         I kept denying it. “I did not punch myself in the face.” She wouldn’t let it go.
         She kept saying, “If you didn’t do it then what’s that big red welt on the side of your cheek? It’s all swollen.”
         I went over to the mirror and looked at myself. O my god. I’ve always been vain. There was a knot on my face bigger than shit.
         “O my god, I fucked up my face,” I said and started crying. “I fucked up my face. I fucked up my face.”
         “So you were hitting yourself?” she said and went into the kitchen for some ice. “Goddamnit Scott.”
         I knew if she said goddamn it—she was really pissed.
         Goddamnit Scott and I had to go and stay at Motel 8 for the night.
         Goddamnit Scott and I was moving my stuff into the basement.
         I told her. “Will you get off my back please? I hit myself in the face sometimes—it’s no big deal.”
         Then I remembered that we were going to my folk’s house that very evening and here I was with this big knot on the side of my head.
         O shit—I’d completely forgot about my folks. For the rest of the day I went into a panic about getting the swelling down. I took the ice pack, put it on my cheek, and then every couple of minutes, I went over to the mirror and looked to see if the swelling had gone down.
         I asked her, “Does it look better? Does it look any better?”
         She said, “Well it looks like you punched yourself in the face Scott.”
         She said I needed to quit messing with it and just sit down for awhile. I put the ice pack back on my face and let it sit there. I took it off after fifteen minutes and asked again if it looked any better. She shook her head.
         This went on and on until it was time to go.
         Does it look better?
         Does it look better?
         Does it look better?
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