Beautification went all wrong. I am sad. I went in a blond and came out a redhead. I look like fucking Trump. I don't know why she did this. She said it had to be done, that I had too many colors going on in my hair, that we had to get a solid base to work from. I almost cried. I liked being blond, I don't like being Trump. I will definitely be looking to buy hats now. But this new look definitely doesn't inspire me to leave the house.
Worse, perhaps, was the way I looked in the mirror. I have gotten fatter than fat. There is no hiding my belly now. It has a life of its own. I want to be a fat donor. If only.
And my eyes look like those of an addict, dark circles, loose skin. Fucking place is nothing but mirrors. There was no escaping myself there.
I would dedicate myself to movement until I looked better, but my back is fucked up. I can barley stand straight, and not at all when I get out of bed in the morning. Oh, if I could run or even walk miles, but I am lucky to hobble from room to room.
I know I have to give up my friendship with whiskey. It is treating me worse than Ili did,
I'll need to quit dressing like a homeless fellow, too. I'm not sure how to dress, really, but I am certain about how I shouldn't dress. But it probably isn't the clothing. I just look like a mushroom.
It took my beautician four hours to make me look like this. I was there from four until eight. I had to skip my mother's and get something to eat. I'm surprised they recognized me at the sushi place, but they were as nice as ever. I am the Friday night guy. They must feel bad for me, always sushi for one.
Sushi last night was not so much fun. It didn't do for me what it should.
This is no way to enter the holiday season, but It Is What It Is--2021.
Q is writing again. He has found Purpose in Work and a rejuvenated Conjugal Bliss. PWCB for short. They may move to a new city. There will be new schools and new routines, the resettling of dogs. . . you know. . . LIFE!
I should try one. It seems to cheer him up. My beautician asked me yesterday if I would marry one of her Russian friends so she could get her papers. I said that I had been watching a show that has me in love with women from India. "Oh! Really?" She had a friend, she said, but after thinking a minute and looking at my belly and hollow, darkly sunken eyes, she said, "But I don't know if she would like you."
"What the fuck!? Really?! What the fuck?!"
Maybe I'll resort to ballroom dancing or Bingo at the Seniors Center. It won't be the same as Q's baby momma in her sexy underwear, however. Maybe I should just drop acid for a week at Burning Man and see what happens. I could shave my head and go all Krishna and shit. Tripping cures alcoholism. All the studies says so. I'll oil my belly and wear a loin cloth and a pair of sandals.
There has to be an answer. They say that hip pain drove Thompson to his final demise. He just couldn't be the man he was, and his wife was leaving him at home to go do who knows what. Well. . . we know what. Decrepit man, babbling on ESPN 2 in random, blogger style. Comes a time.
Me? Fuck me. I'm just a crooked man with orange hair, a belly, and a limp. The future's so bright, I'd better wear shades,