Statement
My first therapist’s name was Dr. Greco. She told me to talk to my bad thoughts. I didn't listen. Bug infestations, bones, and bulging eyeballs reveal peculiarities associated with my thought patterns.
Speaking of bones, I watched my friend break someone’s arm once. They were arm wrestling. I thought a chair snapped.
I manipulate humorous imagery and create mockeries of the mental landscape I’ve existed in since childhood. Because it's funny when a kid has a fear of death, right? I press and pinch, managing a tug-of-war between obsession and paralysis—mirroring compulsions that infiltrate my routine. I deflect, I crack a joke, make, and deflect again. Personified recurrent thoughts become fragmented narratives as a shield of self-protection and distraction from my psyche, illuminating absurdity amidst chaos.
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