I'm Going to Touch My Face

I'm going to touch my face.  And you can't stop me.  I can't stop me.  That's the problem.

I sit at work, reading emails.  Absentmindedly, I rub my face in frustration and stress.  Is there an end to these emails?  Three seconds after contact, I remember that I'm not supposed to touch my face.

I mutter some expletive, as I reach for my hand sanitizer.  Why am I not supposed to touch my face again?  Do I not what my face to touch my hands?  Or my hands to touch face?  Doesn't matter.  I squeeze some liquid purifier into my hand.

Rub it in for 20 seconds, right?  There's no way I squirted enough of this stuff to go on for 20 seconds.  Squeeze more.  Ugh. Now I'm dripping.  I can probably sing the whole soundtrack to "Frozen" 1 and 2, as I rub this in.  I just want to let it go.

Okay, all dry.

What was I doing?  Oh yeah, emails.

Looking at my computer, I sigh, and put my chin and my hand.

Horrible drawing done by me.