I should be ashamed. It’s only been a week since my last impulse, yet here I am once again. Guilt pulses within me and my brain is foretelling how repulsive the subsequent hours, possibly days, will be. I’ll regret this, but I know I won’t stop. With each plunge of my hand I’m only making matters worse. Sometimes it’ll drag out for hours. Other times it only takes a couple hasty minutes. Tonight, is not one of those nights. My commitment will remain till I’m physically ill or too tired to continue.
For a brief second, my stomach turns. "Push through it." I’m thinking too much. I can end it at any moment. There’s hardly anything of real substance left. I decide to feign disinterest to prolong the experience, miserable as it is. I begin licking my fingers clean of the residue, vowing not to dirty them again. My tongue is now numb.
I try to imagine what kind of scene this would be to walk on to. How would I explain this? Repulsive. Just Pathetic.
My urges would surely be stifled if it weren’t for the damn Holidays. The whole atmosphere is practically screaming with implications to take... to consume. Even without permission. It’s only human nature to have urges like mine. Who could blame me?
The semi-sweet irony beneath it is that my eventual demise may just come from the very decimation I partake in. Since I’m young there still may be time to reverse the damage I have caused. Though I must not make this carnage into a habit that will follow me into old age. Without the proper impulse control my indiscretions will never be forgiven.
As I sink into the night, eyes closed, the moonlight shines softly upon the cold, lifeless cookie dough container.