Yesterday began, as most days do, with me in some way actively disliking myself. In particular I spent yesterday morning fixated upon my hair. Although it's no longer really purple, and it's been cut in a way I was rather fond of, it remains half-bleached in areas, and that means there are parts that are still tremendously dry and dead, and I've been obsessing over its rather unfortunate tendency to act in ways that are entirely unbecoming for a good, healthy head of hair. So, that being the case, I got it into my head to cut my hair. Usually I'm pretty good at this, in fact, and I can quite reasonably cut and style my own mop into something remarkably even and fetching given that I only have a mirror or two, and a pair of scissors by which to assure any success. Nevertheless, I've managed to earn my own confidence in these matters, and it was with this self-assuredness that I went at it. I think some of this earnest zeal had to do with the fact that I was due to go to Caira's for a festive dinner occasion in the company of eight other of her closest friends in the world, and I wanted to have more self-esteem if possible. Present that night would be Caira, Mefisto, Broken, Burrhus, Burrhus' erstwhile girlfriend (sort of an intermittent relationship of much pain and legend these two have. It has far since overshadowed even my own spotty love-hate association with Lucretia), Francois and Janice, and their roommate Sean and his girlfriend (or friend or something) Isabelle.

I was, therefore, excited and nervous and bursting with low self-esteem. I only really knew Caira, Broken, Mefisto and Burrhus particularly well; having met two other people only once (though liking them immensely) and never having met the others previously at all. Although I can be rather shy, I usually do well in social occasions where I'm surrounded with strangers, but it depends on my mood (read about my misadventures with Clorinda and her friends to discover that tragic side of my psychological makeup), and I began yesterday in a decidedly poor mood. Stress has taken its toll upon me lately. I've had so much work to do in both the domains of my education and my gainful employment that it seems like free time is a thing of the past, and that I should be lamenting it the way people in metallic costumes starring in movies about the future lament about things like trees or independent thought or America or whatever else it is that no longer exists in the fantastic year 1999. Snip. Snip snip. I thought to myself, rather portentously, "This is a good plan." The more hair I cut -- in fact, as soon as the first bits of my shorn locks began to fall onto the floor -- I realized how very much I really did not want to be doing this to myself. For whatever reason, I talked myself into trying just a little longer to give my hair a good workout, and by that point it was too late for me.

I thought, somehow, that I could balance the overall outcome into a strikingly pleasing blend of lengths (for I realized I really didn't want my hair to be that short). The front of my head was shorn to the point of resembling a thing not entirely unlike a brushcut, but the sides, well, were their own length, and I really did give it my best. However, I am not so naive nor deluded that more than a good, long, self-conscious look into a mirror to convince myself that I had done an awful, awful thing, and frenzied with shame I began to examine my options. The most appealing of these options seemed to be the least attainable. I ran around my room for a little while, desperately hoping as I did, that I would wake up and see that my folly was all a dream. When I have nightmares, they are usually about socially unpleasant situations that are only a little removed from reality, like my friends suddenly hating me, or loving and losing, or failing at everything I try. And usually at some point during these dreams, I suspect that I am dreaming, and cling to this hope and shortly thereafter I wake up. Last night was different. Last night I dreamt that I was being hunted down by two people with shotguns (one of whom lives here, the other was a fictitious character) and in a bloody fight to the death I had to kill both of them with their own shotguns. Conversely, at no point in that dream did I think I was dreaming.

Another option seemed to involve dying honourably, but I wasn't sure if that meant cutting open my own belly or looking for street crimes to heroicially, but fatally, foil, so I had to discount it. The other thing, other than becoming a hermit and forever shunning my friends and the human race at large, was to find a barbershop and get my current haircut professionally aborted. This seemed best. So, cursing my follicles, I slipped on a big black toque, climbed into my sneakers, wrapped myself up snugly in my coat, and headed out into the mocking world. Along the way to the bank machine I ran into Sarada, who (along with me, of course) is the best friend one of my dearest friends from high school. I hoped and prayed that she wouldn't recognize me -- the jury is out as to whether she did ("Say, Laura, I ran into Rob a couple of weeks ago and boy did he look like a knob!"). Broken and I discovered a hair salon right smack near this little cafe right around the corner from my house that serves up the best curries (They're a little expensive, but damn are they exquisite), so I stopped in. I hesitated in taking my hat off as I hung up my coat, but when I did both the hairstylists goggled at me, and asked what happened. Sheepishly, I explained my dilemma and she sat me down to wash my hair. I'm sure I blushed for the entire procedure, which thankfully took only about five minutes or so, due to the fact that the operation was simple. It involved the electric trimmers. I watched as yet more of my hard-won hair fell to the floor. Hair remains nothing more than dead cells, but I was nevertheless rather fond of having it.

I mean, I still have some, but... not much. My beard, I think, is just the most noticable bit longer than my hair, and this left me feeling no end of misery and shame yesterday, I can assure you. Due to the fact that both the hairstylists took pity on me, I was only charged ten dollars, if that gives you any better of a picture. So, I slinked home, after running (toque intact) to a store to buy a few indulgent items that would sugar-rush me while spent gobs of energy to nurse my pride. I spent most of that afternoon hiding in my room, feeling completely sorry for myself. I was so ashamed that I was even marginally suicidal for awhile. The idea of being practically bald so horrified me, and essentially swept away any hope I had of ever being beautiful. I wanted to cry a lot, but I knew how petty I was being (comparitively speaking, I have a life that ought to be considered pretty darn sweet) so I couldn't. I thought it would be awfully cathartic though, so I sure tried. I couldn't do anything other than sulk for most of the afternoon. By the time I was pressed to leave for Caira's, I'd swallowed a lot of my self-pity, somehow. I considered wearing my top hat out, but concluded that although my intentions involved style as much as shame, that I should get used to being seen as I was. So I left it on the head of my Darth Vader helmet (which is its proper home) and departed.

I will say, no one pushed me in the mud or pointed and laughed, but I do look frightfully imposing (which is not an appearance I wish to have associated with myself). Burrhus pointed out, though, that if I wanted a new identity, now would be the ideal time to define it, as everyone in the world associates me with an appearance that, frankly, I no longer possess. I actually did gain a few compliments, too, which slightly boosted my self-perception. People seem to think that my head is a good, fine, well-shaped head that houses my big brain admirably, which is, if nothing else, a trait that such a nearly-bald head as mine would do well to possess. Janice, who I've met before, actually didn't recognize me when I let her in. Upstairs she took a good long look at me, and with dawning said... "hey... you're Rob!" She in particular had lots of nice things to say about my countenance, although the general consensus simply was that I did not look half as horrible as I personally felt... just awfully different. Indeed, in spite of my apprehension and nervousness, the entire night turned out to be spectacularly pleasant. Caira and Mefisto cooked up a feast of exotic perfections (starring such creations as Mongolian Beef, Pang Pang sauce, mystery sauce, vegetables of every configuration and lots and lots of cake made from scratch), the environment was relaxed and comfortable, and everyone in attendance was intelligent and excellent. I loved absolutely everyone there that night, which doesn't happen very often in my reckoning of things. Caira gave me love and attention and consolation (she was very sweet and supportive) and I lent my monkey hands to her massage-addicted back.

I was truly relaxed and happy for the first time in the geological ages of my social life. I laughed more than seemed possible, and deeply regretted the evening's end.

Today, conversely, I'm working (supposedly) at my presentation for Monday evening... so, if you'll excuse me, me and my big head have to get to our labours.

M a r c h 12

Fear sometimes only means that you're caught in an embrace, and you never want it to end. In that safe space against your breasts, the heat of your body and the nourishing sound of your heart are all I have to remember this by, and every extra second you hold me is purchased by how much I hate to know you will eventually let me go. In this time of my desperation the smallest details become important -- the way you look at me when I say that I need you; the depth of your breaths as my hands travel your body; the happiness in your recognition when you hear my voice on the phone. It is because I do not know the future that I feel so afraid. I can feel you slipping away as if your love were a dream, and all I have left is the silent misery which will push you farther from me.

Jealousy is a crayon the colour of me. Jealousy scribbles exaggerated teardrops, unspoken accusations, and ribbons of self-hate scars. Remembering the first time you mentioned his name, I was wounded even then. It's difficult to explain, but your admiration of someone else spoke more of my unworthiness -- a feeling you perhaps never meant to convey, but he did make you shine. In the darkness, I tried to remember hearing the last time you truly needed me; when I was your last bastion of anything, like a small sad frog straining to recall princely delight. I wish you still thought I was beautiful. I wish you could see me cry. I wish I could look into your eyes, and see how very important I was reflected back. I wish I could look into your eyes at all.

Goodnight is a word used like a punctuation mark when your damp, naked bodies haven't even the strength to get up and climb into bed properly. Goodbye is the tinniest word a telephone speaker knows how to reproduce. Presently neither is appropriate. It's true you're not here; but tonight I can't let go.

© 1998 Rob F.

Now, I've got to study all night for a psychology mid-term Friday evening, so you'll forgive me if I must depart.

M a r c h 10

Once I've written an essay, it bothers me to no end to have to go through it, summarize it, put it into notes, copy points onto overhead sheets, and read through everything again and again simply so that I can give an informed and coherent presentation. I'd much rather get a soapbox (for dramatic effect), drag it into the classroom, and spend my twenty minutes blaring and raving like a mad prophet, putting the fear of god and spittle into all who must face my ranting. Plus my handwriting is really messy, and in high school most of my presentations were based on essays jotted down in my impossible scrawl, but I prefer to look at the more cerebral factors. In any case, I can now work out a delightful set of notes for a series of overhead images and handouts on my trusty 386, and zap everything off onto these handy (but agonizingly expensive -- yeowch!) transparencies. No bad handwriting means I have even more room for sarcastic titles, wry labels, and personal commentary (no work of mine is complete without creativity, because I hate watching presentations way more than I hate giving them, and I like having at least the satisfaction that, frankly... goddamn I'm amusing.)

My day was not all jellybeans and technological convenience, however. First came the woe. I wrote Clorinda last night, feeling awful for not writing her and having a bad case of "someone's in my head." So I jotted off a quick e-mail before sauntering out into the night, and at some point, after sending my hopes and concerns, I added a (typically) self-deprecating remark to the effect of "Well, at least I can be pretty sure that whatever you're up to, you haven't been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why I haven't been writing you." Clorinda's response greeted me when I was preparing to leave for class this afternoon, and I put off leaving altogether when I read "Actually, I have been lying in bed a lot, and staring at the ceiling (and walls) a lot, and indeed, wondering why you're not writing me. But I didn't do anything about it. I figured I'd just wait and see how long it would be." I never made it to philosophy, in fact, because I spent my entire window writing her the most apologetic and affection-dripping letter I could conjure from the depths of my craven little heart. If I have to wander into philosophy later than half an hour, meeting the "I'm so brilliant and sarcastic I could even have a bad day and call you a stinky poopy head and you'd still melt into the floor with shame and run away from everything you love out of fear of ever seeing me again because I'm the best philosophy professor in the world and I've got the degree from MIT to prove it!" gaze of my favourite professor is such a shamefully intolerable thing that I just can't even set foot into the lecture theatre.

Clorinda remains both aloof and needy (me, I'm just needy), such that just when I think I've perfected being able to act cool and independent, she lets me know that I've been ignoring her, and then the game resets and we have to go back to level one. However, to be perfectly honest, she is hurting, and I'm not to be easily forgiven (leastwise, not by myself) for letting her down when she needed someone. Smother-proofing our friendship or not, I ought to have been way more sensitive to her feelings. Sometimes I am not a good friend. I would probably end up repeating this one hundred times, but it wouldn't make for a very stimulating snivel. Still, perhaps for later.

This does bring us to the complicated part of my day (in that I've chronologically recounted the most significant events so far). When I returned home, I was (hee hee) delighted to discover the following. It seems that at some point this month, our land(slum)lord has put H'Tog up for sale; so, in the unlikelihood that he actually finds someone who wishes to buy this place (the guy who owns the parking lot a block over has been eyeing this house with a twinkle in his eye for years) we might be given our two months notice at almost any given point. This brings me mixed feelings -- in a sense, I feel almost a kind of cathartic relief. I certainly don't want to be tossed out on my delicate ears quite yet, but the possibility of being forced to move out at least gives me a justifiable reason to begin looking for alternatives to my present housing situation (Caira continues her undaunted effort to destroy their boarder) without seeming like a quitter or a sour meanie (I am almost convinced that there are hard feelings resulting from the fact that I had the temerity to stand up for my friend Pixiegirl. It's been pretty chilly hereabouts lately. Well, serves me right for caring about people).

Of course, it is something of a shame that the house, and all the good (as well as bad) things it represents will conceivably be coming to and end. It was actually doing pretty well this month... all the rooms were full, people were paying the rent (and some of them were even paying their bills) and for once the wolf was assertively kept away from the door with the reassuring power that only monster wolf strap-on plastic cocks can force upon a wolf's survivally-aware analcentric psyche. Our landlord has been looking to get out of the landlording business for some time, but the house/spa has always been something he's had difficulties selling, on account of its ungainly reputation, among other things (like, the fact that he doesn't put any money to keep it in habitable shape.... we've spent far more money making the house safe and pretty than he ever has). But, if he's finally succeeded in finding an interested market, this may well be the end. Where everyone goes, I do not know.

Ah, it's like the Wonder Years. I'm sure I'll be looking back on all this one day, perhaps sprawled out on a psychiatrists couch, out of my mind on Prozac.

Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. I guess I'll go eat worms.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

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