I’ve been told that’s the difference between a good haircut and a bad one. I’m one week and one day into the trauma of having my stylist rape my head and all I’ve become is dehydrated. It’s perfectly logical really. By abstaining from consuming liquids, I thereby lessen my visits to the potty thus avoiding the disgust of accidentally looking in the mirror while I wash my hands. I’ll be parched and boyish for another 6 days – if such a cliché holds true. In the history of my love affair with words, clichés absolutely hold true, which is why I damn them to hell. Of course if they go, we all go since they stick to our shoes like discarded bubblegum.
I’ve been working on a painting of squares and as I glanced at it this morning I think I’ll scrap it to the same place I sent those clichés. It’s quite geometric and I’ve been feeling all chaotic and twirly plus a little bit of scrunchy so we’re totally not feeling each other. I might turn it into one giant, off-centered leaf. Zaya loves leaves and I’ll relate to the jagged edges and veiny texture. Plus their scrunchy this time of year, so the only explanation is that we’ve been brought together by cupid. Bless you, dear cupid. Now, how do I translate something audio into something visual?
July’s end is upon me and I hardly remember its arrival. I would have liked to chat more. It kind of reminds me of my Uncle at family gatherings. I always make it a point in my head to talk to him and then I have to leave after I finally remember to say hello.
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