On Habits

I have always had self-destructive habits. Not in the way where I actually want to hurt myself, but more in the sense that I believe the body is just a medium through which we get to experience life. My habits have always been quite (very) questionable because of that.

But being in love makes me want to do better?

I have never valued a stable sleeping or eating schedule. My priority has always been enjoying the moment, and choosing the story—sneaking a two hour nap or a bodega bagel whenever possible. 

I have never minded—and even encouraged—a cigarette burn, a scratch on my knee, or a nap on the J train. Because they tell stories. Show a life exploit to capacity.

I have never put too much emphasis on it. It has always made sense to me. I like how I look, but I am not vain. I like experimenting with my body. Use it like art.

I love the pain. Not in a masochistic way. But, in a “I am alive and living” kind of way.

But how do you explain this to someone who cares about your well-being? Without sounding like I want to kill myself?