A’ight listen up here.
This shtick of mine, this racket, this blogging scheme, it takes energy damnit.
Physical fucking energy.
That’s right, you sit here in front of this dinosaur laptop in a stuffy 85 degree room while trying to ejaculate deep and insightful thoughts interlaced with a good dose of self-gratuitous philosophizing. Yeah, give it a shot why don’t you. Tell me you don’t need “energy.”
You can burn calories doing this crap, racking your brain for ideas or the vehicle by which to express them without sounding like a complete doofus.
That’s right bastards, I’m ornery. A real pisser.
As I was saying, this blog racket takes deceiving amounts of energy.
So don’t sit there and tell me how you play soccer or practice taekwondo or rock climb…spare me. Hats off to you but does this make my resting caloric expending activity any less valid?
There is an energy threshold you must meet if you intend to pound out any words from that ridiculous skull. You cannot write this florid stuff if you’re nodding off or don’t have the energy to sit straight in your chair.
This is hard business.
So my energy level is ebbing.
Not so wonderful. It was a hot day in L.A. and I used public transportation to and fro work which is the quintessential definition of Third World masochism. Especially when your car (air conditioned) is waiting in the parking garage but you choose to sit in an exhaust fume-filled rectangular tin can. Nope, I persist. It’s a glowing, oily-skinned, kinda day. Hot weather cannot be good for the skin. The oil and the sun combine to create a weathered dermal parchment which looks like an ash tray bottom by the time you’re 40. I’m very sensitive about my skin because I had terrible acne as a teenager. This is a traumatic childhood legacy which you leaves you overly and acutely aware of your less than flawless presentation. If something is off, is not “right,” my self-image may be shattered in a second and the remnant of my day crumbled to disarrayed and blemished pieces.
I gotta feel it.
I need to be pleased with the image staring back at me in the mirror in the morning as well as every ensuing second throughout the day, and if it ever falters, if my face or hair ever stumbles, my esteem and mental state turns to irredeemable shit.
I’m trying to get away from this thought pattern.
I’m trying to build a foundational mood which is steady and can weather the stormiest of bad hair and bad skin days.
Or in my case, a bad hair week.
Literally, beginning Monday of last week, it seemed my hair reached that very uncomfortable and helpless state in which it is too long to manage but not long enough to run to the barber shop. Well, Monday afternoon, just after lunch, my hair seemed to round that corner, barely tip that peak, in which it officially reached the stage of unruly shagginess. When my hair is bad, it is BAD. Bad. From that point, my hair became an exhausting personal burden which dragged my self-image into the depths of despondency. I was convinced my hair looked like shit, hence, I looked like shit.
I wore my self-esteem like a self-conscious and embarrassing stain across a starched white shirt. My hair…it seemed to shout, “Look how ugly I am, don’t give me the time of day, and please, ignore me if you can!” All the miserable week long. My hair became a tousled rebel. It happily flaunted its independence from my careful and obsessive combings and sculpting. No effin way. My hair would have none of it. I felt like a disgusting and invisible lump of maggot flesh for five days. Because of my hair.
Well I’m proud to announce that this weekend I went and got a haircut at a new barber shop and I was very pleased. The girl (didn’t get her name, I’m not a good name-getter, I’ve alluded to that before on this blog) did a splendid job with the electric clippers, #4 at the top, then she laddered down to a 3 and a 2 on the sides and back. It looks very nice, but doesn’t anyone use scissors anymore? So for the rest of Sunday my hair, and thus myself, led a charmed life again. My self-esteem was revved and I was back in business. But herein lies the tragedy. For what business do I allude? It’s not like I’ve been in the business of getting laid. Seems that “sector” has taken a hit lately and I think blaming “bad hair” represents a rather understated measure of self-delusion.
Well, whatever the case, I was back on top of my game and I was ready this morning.
Ready to do up my new do and scour the countryside for virginic young maidens, or barring that, whatever else might bite.
It just so happened, that for a multitude of reasons, I was running late this morning. I found myself rushing through my routine pre-shower checklist of brushing my teeth, shaving, getting lost in the mirror… During my shaving, I accidentally brought the disposable safety razor sideways acorss my skin in a slicing motion instead of the proper forward motion with the blade’s edge perpendicular to the skin. Even a safety razor couldn’t save my moronic ass. I bled like a pig. I jumped in the shower, hoped the bleeding would stop under the hard spraying water, dried myself, wiped some rubbing alcohol to hopefully close up the still-bleeding wound, and ran out the door. The cut stung all the way to work, but since i was in the bus I didn’t have the luxury of being able to survey the damage in the rear view mirror and my vanity, while bloated, is still not strong enough to drive me to carry a mirror around. By the time I got to work, the pain had subsided and I thought more about my sharp new hairstyle than my nick.
I settled in, booted up my workstation, went to visit the bathroom for the first time today.
When I glanced in the mirror, the realization struck me when I saw my face staring back at me.
I had seriously wounded myself this morning!
There it was man, just above my upper lip, on the right side, a flaring slice in all its crimson glory. It looked ridiculous. For a moment I thought of Jack Nicholson’s Joker from the modern Batman movies. It looked terrible, it stole the attention from my new haircut. Suddenly I saw the truth. The reality. I took care of my hair, fixed it, just in time to mangle my facial skin just adjacent to my upper lip which is a proximity that always looks dubious, at best. There’s something about a large red mark near the lips that spells stay away from these lips. Possible transmissible disease lurks!
That spell, the auspicious start my new haircut had promised, was shattered now that I realized this morning’s razor snafu had left an obvious and attention-robbing mark on my face that didn’t even look manly. It just looked like randomly and drunkenly applied lipstick or clown make-up. Or the threat of a repulsive contagion carried on by my kisser.
This photo does it no justice.
It is not pretty and it doesn’t look like it plans on healing any time soon.
But my hair looks fantastic. If you can ignore the cut.