It’s like stitching gravel to your sole and skating—no, GLIDING on concrete. It’s like writing with a fountain pen on cheap paper. It—It’s like buttering burnt toast. Ugh, that scraping sound is so distinct, so cathartic. What always gets me though, is that you can slice your entire face open and not feel an ounce of pain—No pinch, no sting, definitely no jolt. You’d only know you’ve gashed yourself if you see your delicious blood seeping through that gorgeous snow-beard, like cherry-filling oozing over fluffy whipped cream. But when you’re done, trust me, you’ll feel like you’ve just woken up from hibernation; It’ll look like your skin is sparkling, GLIMMERING, like Edward from Twilight—Have you seen Twilight?—It’s cool to be a Twilight fan now; It’s not cringe anymore. Listen, I have an extra one; How about you swing by my place around 7 p.m. tomorrow—Not before; I usually sleep in. And definitely not after either; I have, um… prior obligations.