How wicked is the flesh

I've been chewing on something recently. It's so repuslive that I can barely stand to reflect on it, but I just can't escape it.

How wicked is this flesh I wear? I get very comfortable in it and simply give it token recognition, "It's bad,"--then I see what's been in me this past week or so.

Every time I communicate with someone from back home over the computer, undoubtedly the thought comes again that we are 12-13 hours ahead of our friends and family. Everytime I remember this, I sense a cold pride swell up within me as if to say "I've already gone through this day and they're behind us." I have this voice talking in my head saying, "Hey guys, I've done this day...It's pretty good. You'll see."

WHAT IN THE WORLD IS THAT!!?!?

Whenever I may take lightly the depravity within this flesh I bear, such an inner monologue makes clear that things are naturally flawed in the human condition. Even in the most plainly obvious and foolish ways possible, the flesh wells up in pride, in all it's glorious stupidity, and makes sure I know how aweful and grotesque it really is.