Of life and razors...

So here I am. The end of day one in New York. I was pessimistic. I didn't think it was going to work out well for me. I figured I would end up hating my job, quitting, and being forced to return to Gainesville with my tail between my legs and with nothing more in tow than additional life experience of a failed attempt at normalcy. Second verse, same as the first. Except it doesn't feel that way. I know, its only the end of the first day - a bit early to be making that call. But I feel good. Its hard to explain. I haven’t felt this way in a very long time. I mean, I’ve felt good. But I haven’t felt good. I haven’t felt good about any situation I’ve found myself in for as long as I can remember. But this situation feels good. Sure, it isn’t perfect. I’m basically living in someone’s sitting room and sleeping on their futon. The conditions aren’t as cramped as I had feared they would be, but they aren’t too far off. Its not exactly a fabulous lifestyle. After day one, though, I feel good.


As a side note, I hate razors. Electric razors, straight razors, disposables, vibrating ones – you name it, I hate it. Why? Because I have to use them on my goddamned face. There is nothing – and I seriously mean nothing – like scraping your face with the sharpest blade imaginable until the coarsest hair this side of a porcupine’s quills is cut off at the skin. Electric razors are almost worse. Instead of scraping your face with an unimaginably sharp blade, you’re rubbing your face with a rough metal screen. About seventy percent of the hair pokes through the small holes in the screen and is sheared off by the mechanical blades. Approximately twenty-eight percent of the hair pokes through the metal screen and is not sheared off by the mechanical blades, but is caught by the edges of the holes through which it is poking and is violently and unceremoniously ripped out of its moorings by the very act of rubbing yourself with the fucking razor. And to top this off, about two percent of the stubble doesn’t penetrate the metal screen, and so is left standing long and proud upon the face, a very real monument to the true idiocy of the act of shaving. I’m sure some people would say, “Hey buddy, try shaving your scrotum,” or “My labia don’t like razors either, but you don’t see me bitching about it in my blog.” Well let me say that I have used a razor on my nether-regions, and it is nothing compared to the horror that is the after effects of using a blade on my face (I don’t have any labia to run a razor over for comparative purposes, so ladies you might have an arguable point here). After shave balm might not make the situation worse, but you would be better off applying Neosporin to an amputated leg. I guess what I’m trying to say by writing all of this is that I really don’t like shaving my face. But I have to. I dislike facial hair. I’ve tried various looks involving landscaped growths and I’ve liked none of them. So I’m forced to shave. I have to.

I will be mailing out official donation forms for my new charity cause. I now require that laser hair removal procedures be performed on my face. I do not have the money to pay for this. Please donate to the charity. I promise, a child now suffering of starvation will soon pass into a euphoric sleep forever. Give your money to me instead, so that I may never have to undergo the sick and inhumane act of shaving ever again.


On the beat box: John Mayer - Freefallin'