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And...Here Goes Nothing before/after So I put up or shut up. Time to get the wheels turning. I went and got a haircut. It was long overdue. I had seriously begun to resemble the skinny kid from "That Seventies Show", which would be okay were I also dating the amazonian red-head they had paired him with, but I'm not. The haircut place was occupied, so I had to while some time in other stores. I fucking hate malls. I went to the bookshop, in my normal cruise for Burroughs. All they had was 'Naked Lunch'. Decided to purchase some Bukowski. Finding nothing, I asked the clerk for help. argentum "Can you help me? I'm looking for Charles Bukowski." Terminally Bad BOOKSTORE Clerk:"Who?" a:"Bukowski. Beat writer." tbbc:"A what?" A:"Beat Generation writer? You know, Burroughs, Bukowski, Ginsberg. Beat writers...Bukowski did stories, poetry, screenplays..." tbbc:"Uhh....I don't know what that is, but let me check the computer." If he was furbearing, I would have shot him. I think its a simple rule that you should at least fake that you know your job. When people walk off the street and display greater knowledge of your chosen feild, its time to find a new career. You'll still be allowed to wear the name-tag and apron, but you likely have a broom in your hands, you dig? Its not like I came in and asked for an archaic genre, or rather some esoteric author that no one has heard of in the modern era. Not asking for the fucking Rosetta Stone, buster. Get fuckin' better at your job. Then I went to a CD store. Highschool kids posturing, not buying anything. What is that? You...hang out in a store? And this makes you cool? Try on your identity someplace where it won't annoy me. At that age, at least I was starting to develop my fetish for felonies. They are just waiting to take the consumeristic place of their parents. Truly sad. Flashback. Last night, while I masturbated feverishly, the name "Melissa" kept popping into my head. Then this morning, while I showered, it kept popping back into my head. And all morning. So much so, that I tried to sing a song, I think its Jim Croce, but maybe not, called "Melissa" in an effort to get the name out of my skull. No dice. Psychically, I have been an open banded radio receiver. Return. I go back to the hair-cut place and wait. No worries. The blonde girl starts to cut my hair, but has difficulty understanding me. She was cute. Hot body. Very much so. But her face seemed to bunch around her nose a little bit. Not that I would disqualify her on that basis. I am open minded and I grade with a comprehensive scale. Anyway, I struggle to communicate my coiffe related desires, but eventually the message gets through. And I, once again, repeated my appeal to not end up looking like a mongoloid. bg:"A what?" A:"A mongoloid. Just don't make me look like one." bg:"I don't know what that is...you'll have to tell me." A:"You don't know what a mongoloid is?" bg:"No. What is it?" (pause) a:"A mongoloid is a non-pc term for someone who may have downs syndrome or something related to that." bg:"Awwwww...there's no WAY you could look like a..a..mongoloid. You're eyes...(pauses to look) don't look stupid or almond shaped." a:"I need a helmet." We bantered a bit, and then she asked to wash my hair. Which took me aback. Not, 'Do you want your hair washed?', which I guess is what happens at foo-foo hair places. Salons. But, "Can I wash your hair?" It reminded me of a girlfriend who liked to bathe me. I liked being bathed. Rub me. Love me. I work out for a reason. Validate my sense of discipline. I paused, because I don't go for the foo-foo-hair shit. I'm a guy. Cut my hair. Don't tell me about the lice. Speed is essential. And then I thought, "Maybe she's trying to tell me something." so I let her do it. a:"So what's your name?" bg:"Melissa." It all made sense. I wasn't even surprised.
Definitely felt like I could have had the digits, but didn't even try. Not there yet. Then I went to my Aunt's and tried to fix her computer, which is old and fucked. My Aunt spits a lot when she talks. I don't like it. Roll.
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