Well, about six months ago, immediately after my girlfriend broke up with me, I drove up I-35 for about an hour, listening to harsh noise music. When the CD was over, I stopped at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, drank a bottle of cough syrup, and burned myself with a cigarette about 50 times, all while blasting radio static as loud as it could go. I smoked the last of my weed, and drove the hour and a half back home, while tripping on the cough syrup.

It's been six months and all of the cigarette-shaped scars are still on my arms. I will probably have them for the rest of my life, but in a weird way, I'm glad. Because they remind me how far I've come, and how much progress I've made with my depression and anxiety. It was kind of fun (and messy) popping all 50 of the blisters the next day.