Henna paste, courtesy of Holly Monster, used in a fit of pique to remind myself to finish what I start:

The end result:

It’s amazing how cathartic this little thing is. I sometimes can’t resist and end up kissing my wrist (I always imagine Walter Kovacs cringing and twisting away, like an embarrassed little boy). The moment the paste hit my skin, I instantly felt better and breathed a sigh of something — relief, or satisfaction, or intention. By now the pigment has sunk in deep, and looks less like a burn than a very concentrated coffee stain. It’ll change over time, the length of its life dependent on my body heat and how often I exfoliate. Weeks from now it will be a ghost of its former self, almost invisible without conscious effort. But weeks from now things will be different — the strike will be over, I’ll see my students, I’ll write more chapters, I’ll read more books and cite more sources, I’ll watch a new president’s inauguration, I’ll watch more snow collect outside my window.

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