Addiction (warning: self-centred bollocks)

I've been on my own in the house for a few days, and damn it's nice. I got the 'job' and am starting, I think, next Monday, ie the 13th (although the people in charge are going to tell me more about this on Tuesday). I've written my 4,000 words this week (new weekly rather than daily targets, notice), and am going to join a gym before I start work in order to take advantage of any unemployed discount, and am doing one more rather sensitive thing.
If anyone who knows me in the real world is reading this, you'll know: I have trichotillomania, I think, I can't spell it and don't want to be associated with the word 'mania' but it's a thing for pulling out your own hair, leaving little bald spots. This started when - actually I don't know when it started, it seems to have always been there. If you don't have it you probably won't be able to understand; it sounds really disgusting (it is really disgusting) to pull out the hair on your head strand by strand, or to spend half an hour chasing an imaginary hair on your chin, or to pick off every single eyelash, but I managed it until I discovered Doing your Legs. Perfect. Women aren't supposed to have hair on their legs; I like removing hair (albeit in a slightly unorthodox manner); I can take a pair of tweezers to my legs whenever I like and not be penalized for doing what I want to do. I had not counted, however, on the fact that there are a sod of a lot of hairs on your legs, and so I had to do it for hours. And hours. And hours. I have spent whole mornings when I should have been working sat on the bed with one trouser-leg rolled up and a pair of tweezers in one hand, occasionally looking at the clock and thinking quarter of an hour more and then I'll get on with my work, then quarter of an hour later that clock must be fast, I'll just take five minutes more and then I really will get on with it, then another ten minutes, then - I wanted to stop but I couldn't. That's the definition of addiction, allegedly. I looked in a library book and found out that it's a minor form of self-harm, and that did it. No way am I going to be associated with that either. So I stopped straight off - no tapering off, that doesn't work (again allegedly) - on Thursday, and if I go three months without it I shall get another tattoo. An Amazon axe, to cut through all the bollocks I am (we are) subjected to on a daily basis, rather than to symbolise courage or any bullshit like that. It seems to be the fashion these days to use 'brave' as a synonym for 'unlucky' on one hand or 'stupid' on the other; pulling hairs out of your body is stupid, trying (and I am trying really, really hard for the last and first time) to stop it is just sensible.