text: I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a ri I’m supposed to write it ten times but my left hand starts shaking so I can’t hold the pen steady and the back of my head is buzzing and I have to do deep breaths like Dr. Spinoza showed me. In for four counts, out for five. In for four, out for five. In for four, out for five. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. it is green and slimy and slightly pulsating. I wear sweatshirts to try to hide it, even in the summer, but I know people are staring at it anyway. I have to keep my arm tense and outstretched a little, because it is actually a tentacle and it is cold and slimy and I don’t want it touching anywhere else on my body, and I have to keep the fingers on my right hand in a tight fist because if I unclench them they might not come apart since tentacles don’t have fingers. I’m not crazy or stupid, I know that people have two arms and no tentacles. But I can’t help thinking that I might have a tentacle instead of an arm, and that’s why people stare at me. When I had a girlfriend she would tell me that people weren’t staring at me because my arm was a tentacle, they were staring at me because I was holding my arm funny and clenching my fist and also I smelled a little bit bad. I can’t get in the shower without walking past the mirror, and if I look in the mirror I might see that my arm is a tentacle, so before I started seeing Dr. Spinoza I only showered once a week and squeezed my eyes closed the whole time. When I first met Emily, I only thought I had a tentacle for an arm some of the time. I told her about my thoughts on one of our dates and she laughed at me, and I laughed too. But then when I started to have the thoughts all the time she started pushing me around in front of her friends, and pretty soon she decided she didn’t want to date a guy with a tentacle instead of a right arm anymore and she broke up with me. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I have a tentacle instead of a right arm. I finish my ERP therapy exercises for the night and decide to reward myself with a cookie and a glass of milk before bed. I have to wake up early tomorrow for work. It was hard to find a job that someone with only one working arm could do, but I finally found a job at a call center selling herbal supplements. I don’t think they work, but at least over the phone people can’t see my tentacle arm. In the kitchen, I open cabinets and get down dishes one-handed. It was weird, at first, using my left hand for everything, but I’ve mostly stopped dropping stuff. I opened the fridge and pulled the half-gallon of milk off the top shelf. But the movement was clumsy, and my left arm sent a bottle of ketchup tumbling towards the floor in the process. I have excellent reflexes. As soon as the ketchup topples, my right hand shoots out and snatches it from midair. It is cold, probably the coldest thing my right hand had touched in months. Condensation is already beginning to form on the bottle, making the plastic feel slightly slimy. Or is it my hand that feels slimy? It must be my hand, turning into a green slimy tentacle. The floor slips from beneath my feet. I open my eyes but don’t see anything at first, my eyes not yet adjusted to the dark. There is no floor under my feet; I stretch my toes as far as I can but feel only... what? Water, I think. I’m suspended underwater. The back of my head buzzes. Breath in for four counts, out for five... The water is warm. I’m underwater and breathing fine. I have to go to work tomorrow, I need to get out of here, but as I raise my arms to swim upwards, I see that I don’t have arms, I have tentacles. They are green and slightly pulsating. They are covered in mucus, allowing them to slice cleanly through the warm water. I am so much stronger than I have ever been, with no bones in my arms weighing me down. I could lift a car. I have tentacles for arms and as my eyes adjust I can see that everyone else does too. In the distance I can see more people moving effortlessly through the water, propelled by tentacles that cover their body. They are happy. They do not stare at me. One man is closer than the rest, and he is looking at me, though not unkindly. He has red tentacles for arms, and a dozen other tentacles coming out of his chest, his shoulders, his back, his groin. “I need to get back,” I tell him. “I have to work, and if I leave the milk out for too long it will go bad.” He doesn’t respond, but keeps looking at me, not unkindly, and a moment later gravity returns I am lying on the kitchen floor in a puddle of milk. I sit up. The back of my sweatshirt is soaked. I shiver, chilled by gusts of A/C. I hug my arms to my chest, attempting to warm myself. I have two of them, thin and bony things, a bit grimy and now half-soaked in milk. I miss my tentacles.