So at work today I was shipping some broken electronics to our service center. Our company recently changed policy on how this done and it now involves a different shipping service. This used to be an easy process, I’d call 1-800 and then answer some computer posed questions. Schedule a pickup, yes, yes, 2 pounds, yes, and it was done. Easy. Easy.

However the new shipper’s computer was having difficulty understanding I had a prepaid label and kept wanting to use the destination address as the pickup, so mercifully it very quickly gave up and transfered me to a human.

Anyway the human and I get to the end of the transaction and she prepares to give me a confirmation number. I ready to jot a long string of alphanumeric gibberish down on my stub of the shipping label. I actually do keep track of these things due to a rather long email chain of “hey you never sent us that thing” I had to endure a few months back.

“Your confirmation number is.. three.”

There is then a longer than expected pause.

I wait.

Okay, maybe she wants me to read it back to her as it’s given to me.

“Three…” I reply expectantly.

There is another longer pause. No other numbers seem to be coming, just silence.

“Is.. that it?” I finally venture.

“Yes,” she answers evenly.

“My confirmation number is just… three?”

Short pause.

“Yep.” She sounds tired, so I don’t want to push it.

“Oookay then… three. Well, uh, thank you for your help” I finish.

“Thank you sir.” The call ends.

Three.

Okay.

Not again.
It’s sour cream.
It doesn’t matter.
So no clean towels.
A hapless dog with moldy pants.

Broken handlebars hush your face.
A half-assed wall in an empty plan.
Summer beans on the string.
Mesmerized.
It’s okay.

In the suit.
It’s Goodman’s wrath.
With rear projection, and a jumbo hog.
They never will.
So just play along.

Aaaand it was haircut time again this morning.

I cut my own hair for many reasons. Yes, it’s partially because I’m a cheapskate, but really it’s mainly due being a semi-crazy person who just doesn’t like strangers being that close to my face.

And despite cutting my own hair for years, I am still no damn good at it.

Today once again, I had the urge to shave it all off. Something I’ve only done twice in my life. However there are problems with me going all bald. My head/scalp has these unusual um, “grooves” in them which makes it very difficult to remove the hair with a razor. Last time I did it there were recessed patches all over my scalp. It takes forever to shave them all out. The end result is a tonsorial presentation that says “Yes, I am a recently released mental patient. I may or may not be taking thorazine.”

While this may actually be an appropriate look at this point in my life, I didn’t really have the time this morning to spend several hours going through a box of razors. Yet when I get these haircut urges, they must be obeyed. I don’t plan these things. I wake up, go to the bathroom, scowl, and grab the scissors. They just happen.

You’d think all this would perhaps make me out as some sort of impetuous free spirit. Someone who gives into whimsy and snips away regardless of consequence and what others might think.

Really though,

It has more to do with me waking some days with such a deep personal dissatisfaction and disgust that I am compelled to do something…anything, to bring about change. Even if it’s something as petty as changing how my hair looks.

I think my self inflicted hair cuts are more about desperation than whimsy.

So how does it look?

Pretty bad, but not freakishly so.

It’s just shorter.

I have my paranoia and I have my proof,

and they both tell me the same thing.

.

Um,

Let me try explaining this again. Stick with me now.

Okay. Okay. So I told you all about the shaky hands days right?

Yeah well, those are now considered the good old days.

Now it’s

everydayeverydayeverydayeveryday

Urges to run.

Urges to GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. WHY THE HELL ARE THE REST OF YOU STILL STANDING AROUND! DON’T ANY OF YOU SEE THAT SOMETHING INCREDIBLY BAD IS JUST ABOUT TO HAPPEN. WHAT THE FUCK! RUN. RUN!

Something incredibly bad is always just about to happen.

(Okay, okay. Nothing incredibly bad is just about to happen. You think I don’t know that?)

There used to be things to calm it down. There used to be ways to make me exhale. Sometimes is was paint. Sometimes it was certain musics. Sometimes it was hot baths. Sometimes it was warm coco. Sometimes it was a half bottle of gin.

I hold my breath for days.

I sleep in four hour chunks. Four on, four off, four on, four off, twenty seven off, four on, four off.

I rapatap my fingers against clipboard and table.

Tapatapatapatapatapatapa.

(Sometimes that helps.)

I can’t do tomorrow, I can’t do tomorrow.

Up to almost two packs a day.

You’d think that after weeks and months there would be some kind of crash. Some kind of restful tangled broken collapse.

Yeah, you’d think.

Nostalgia is a no go.

Daydreaming is a no go.

I put on a uniform everyday, and it’s not the one I wear to work.

I need a slap in the face. I need a punch in the gut. I need a stab in the back.

And sometimes I tend to get just a little bit carried away.

Yes I do.

Um,

Again, I’m not explaining this very well at all am I?

Uhg.

So, I feel the need to explain it.

But, I’m not exactly sure why.

There are problems with an explanation.

It’s not so much that I think you won’t understand,

but more that I think you won’t care.

I know, I know how that sounds.

Trust me I know.

And that’s exactly why I will never be able to explain it.