My hairline is getting out of control you guys. That’s the little note I email myself on my smartphone yesterday at the gym while sitting on the ab machine during a commercial break of Game 2 of the World Series (the gym is where I go to watch TV on Thursday nights when Baby spends like seven hours watching her shows, shows that she seems to binge watch only during the most hormonal point of her period, shows like Project Runway and Greys Anatomy and some abomination called Parenthood (which I had first mistaken for a black sitcom on The WB called The Parent ‘Hood starring Steve Harvey (who, upon IMDBing, was never even on that show) but actually it turns out is a family drama that visually reminds me of the show Brothers and Sisters, in that it induces nausea the minute light waves from any frame of any scene reaches my optic stems — which is why I’m at the gym watching TV and conveniently using the ab machine as a recliner and now I’m losing track of my nested parentheses) so, anyway, yeah). My hairline.
I’m at the corner of the gym where the mirrors meet at right angles and reveal things you normally don’t see, and what I’m seeing is my hair looks like Squiggy’s from Laverne & Shirley, like I’ve got an exaggerated Eddie Munster widow’s peak, but like actually my hairline is receding really bad on my temples. Apparently I felt the need to email myself this observation, written in a very Reddit lolzy kind of way, and as I come across this email two nights later and recall my intent, I can’t help but feel the same cringing nausea I feel about Parenthood’s insufferable chick-littiness.
I’ve been through it before. One night, years ago, in a drunken stupor, I’d hated how bildungsroman the writing on this blog had become — the worst offender being the one where I’d humiliated a homeless guy to impress friends but deep down inside I felt horrible and wondered if he would have a warm blanket to sleep in at night and then later that evening I returned to the alley to look for him and give him a sandwich, but he wasn’t there and I never saw him again and I introspected for at least two more beautifully crafted paragraphs after that — so in a fit of rage I barfed and deleted everything I’d ever posted on the Internet ever and vowed to start over. For me, it was the Great Flood to my Writer’s Ark.
I’ve gone for irony and lolzploitation ever since, but man am I trying way too hard to write a certain way. My hairline is getting out of control you guys.
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