Word to paradoxes, in the summer and winter my skin is, alternatingly, as oily as a bowling ball and as dry as an octogenarian's snatch. If I didn't take part in drug testing as a means to pay my college tuition, I'd blame the weather.
And so it was that, last night,
(I dreamed that somebody loved me)
Name Withheld remarked about my arid visage, and today
(is the greatest day I've ever known; can't live for tomorrow -- tomorrow's much too long)
resolved to do something 'bout it, 'bout it.
No hard feelings; the best intentions of mice, men, and lobstrosities; PLEASE DON'T LOBOTOMIZE ME, but beauty shops and I aren't exactly on speaking terms these days, father. In fact, we never have been. So it was with great apprehension and distrust that I followed Psychedelic Kimchi's resident angel into the Make Men Gay Center* with a look in my eyes that I imagine was similar to those of pets corralled in an airplane's belly pre-flight, and, if I may, passengers aboard a Holocaust train.
As it turned out, like a booster shot to a toddler or sitting through a Hugh Grant movie, it was relatively painless, the fear of the unknown vastly outweighing the reality of facial masks, moisturizer, and hair wax. That said, there are great many dangers I will flirt with, but I do not wish to revisit that particular -- nay, any -- beauty shop again, lest I go mad.
After what seemed an eternity, we exited that den of sweet-scented evil; and like harried freedom on horseback I sought escape to places where flowers would not grow and scum would flourish. I took the subway home, hoping to wash away the aroma of flowery malice in soju-soaked obscurity.
But I was not one of them, and they knew it. Knives were out. The dandelion perfume, which Name Withheld had playfully sprayed me with not an hour prior, attracted them to my status as an interloper faster than a shark smells fresh blood. How I made it above ground is a tale for another time, perhaps another era. The fact that I did, I think, is due more to pure luck than genuine skill. Whatever the case, I'm just happy to be alive right now. Baseball has been berry, berry good to me.
This story is not, however, devoid of loss. And for that I am filled with an almost unbearable sorrow.
Because
(Naoko never loved me)
I left behind a bag containing skin moisturizer, facial masks, hair wax, and (quite possibly) the Holy Grail AND the Ark of the Covenant. To quote Kurtis Blow, these are the breaks.
Luckily, my mojo was spared, thank God. Can't say the same for the souls of the passengers of that crowded subway car who watched me stand up without my bag in tow and who collectively did fuck all to alert me to the fact. They're all going to hell, I am convinced. Or Moran Station (same difference).
However, in the end, I blame only myself.
Because that's what a grown man does.
A grown man with dry skin and a devilish smirk from ear to ear.
Because I'd rather eat dehydrated deer penis and fuck an electric socket than moisturize myself.
Word to paradoxes.
* possibly not its actual title
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