I would never physically mark myself, you see. I find the notion dreadful and not at all effective. You do not hurt yourself in the most obvious way possible. You become inefficient, you feel physical pain, and your autonomic system makes all sorts of chemicals kick in that make concentration on anything but said pain difficult.

Abuse is not like that, at least my variety. Skillfully employed, it focuses my attention and makes my rather unfortunate attention deficit a minimal, if still annoying facet of my thinking. I pushed myself too far tonight, I fear, or perhaps it had been too long since I had properly disciplined myself like that.

The adage "you are your own worst enemy" applies and does not apply, depending on my course of action. I find peaceable relations with myself for the most part, but I give little measure and brook no insolence from me. It's one of the few things I can readily control amidst so many other chaotic elements.

Is it control to treat yourself like an ascetic monk in your mind, though? No, I merely did it because I felt I deserved punishment for failing myself, moreso for failing to live up to the expectations of my supervisor. He expected things to be done by a certain hour tonight and I failed to deliever. It shall, of course, be reflected in his overall evaluation of me...but who is to say that we cannot meter out some extra-curricular acknowledgement of our short-comings and ravenous moments of pitiful stupidity.

There are moments where I cannot believe myself. This is one of them, and I dare say that I am thoroughly disappointed. Still, I will stay the hand for now. I think I've had enough and you can only indulge in wanton self-abuse for so long before your sanity reminds you of your place. I am reminded but that does not excuse anything. After all, what does one see with a failed task? The plight of the individual attempting to accomplish it? Hardly. It is the failed task and, subsequently, the failed individual.

Mistakes in matters of work are arterial incisions, with beautiful plumes of red, reaking flower buds streaming forth in my mind, remind me to stop and smell the coagullated mistakes that can readily scar. Yes, I can at least stop and smell these roses for awhile. The metaphorical cut was too deep this time. I shall have to be more careful.

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