Stranger, strange, I knew I knew you

I keep waking up with cuts on my body (mostly concetrated upon my back). Thin lines that snake down a couple of centimetres. And I don't know where (or remember where) I get them from. I don't sleep on a bed of pirate hooks. Nor do I wrestle with machete wielding lion kings. I don't even t-t-t-tangle with Freddy Krueger. But I see them in the morning. Not lions, cuts. And I'm terribly addicted to picking the scabs. Self mutilation to feed an addiction. Yes please?

I've been staring at my lamp for about 2 hours. Evidently, it took 672 times of turning the lamp on and off to blow my light bulb. Now there's a fact to pull a crowd. Tonight I go to see Death Cab for Cutie.