/soy/ - Soyjaks

April 6, 2026

Dear Diary,

I spent forty-five minutes today staring at my own hand. Just my hand. Specifically, I was gripped by the sudden, irrational conviction that my knuckles are "suspiciously robust." I was in the middle of a grocery store, frozen in the cereal aisle, wondering if the person stocking the oats was looking at my grip on a box of Cheerios and thinking, “Aha! Those are the fingers of someone who once played high school percussion!”
It’s exhausting. The brain-weasels are out in full force today.
I did that thing again where I practiced saying "Excuse me" in the car for ten minutes before going inside, trying to find that perfect resonance that sounds like a "light summer breeze" rather than a "slightly congested cello." Of course, when the cashier actually spoke to me, I just ended up making a high-pitched squeaking noise like a startled balloon. I’m pretty sure they didn’t think I was a man or a woman; they probably just thought I was a very tall, anxious rodent in a cardigan.
The worst part is the mirror. One minute I look in the glass and think, Okay, we’re doing it, we’re a vision, a masterpiece. Ten seconds later, the light shifts by one degree and suddenly I’m convinced my jawline could be used to chop wood.
I just want to exist without feeling like I’m performing a high-wire act where the safety net is made of sheer willpower and concealer. I’m currently hiding under my weighted blanket because it’s the only place where nobody can perceive my "robust" knuckles.

Send help. Or more tea. Mostly help.