Danny Downer (To the Beat of my Heart Breaking)

It’s the weirdest thing. I can’t seem to go out and have fun without my mind wandering to the darkest parts of myself, picking apart the most painful aspects of social functions. What’s left of my heart swells with excitement from the anticipation of fun and yet my mind won’t allow for such happenings. The latest entropic episode occurred at the Showbread concert a couple of weeks ago. They are my favorite band and I was seeing them live and really pumped about it but yet I just couldn’t have a good time. Sure, the performance was great and I got lost in the rawness but it was the wait that whittled away the anticipation and excitement. There were five bands before Showbread performed so I definitely had a lot of time on my hands. Time to think. And it’s never a good time when I’m thinking. Thinking always takes me to the sad place within myself, that retrospective spot that’s as sensitive as newborn skin. One thought leads to another and then another until I’m unhappy for a seemingly unrelated reason that has nothing to do with why I felt sad in the first place. It’s a chain reaction of reflection linked by loneliness. Ah, that loneliness, that itch that runs so deep only a chainsaw could satisfy it. Doesn’t all the sadness and frustration stem from that one little itch? It seems so for me. It’s the common denominator of my depression.

As I mentioned in a previous entry, I was surrounded by dozens of hipster teens and it basically made me feel old and fat. I’m pretty sure I was a good five years older than the oldest kid there and, consequently, I felt pretty out of place. I felt like I had taken a wrong turn to the show and ended up at Stephanie Stephano’s sweet sixteen. I swear, if they had busted out a Coke bottle and birthday cake cones, I would have bolted. No, I was at the right place, wrong age. It’s no surprise, really, as I’ve always felt more like seventy-three than twenty-three. Yep, Old Soul Syndrome. I don’t know, I’ve just always had this thing with youth. I’ve never felt young and good looking and so now I’m preoccupied with obtaining it in some form or another. And I guess I never felt like I was able to act like a kid when I was one and now I resent others who embrace their youth. It’s no one’s fault and I shouldn’t be projecting my negative vibes on anyone but it just feels a little unfair. Sitting in my chair at the concert, because my old bones can’t hold me up on their own anymore, I looked around and saw all of these fresh-faced kids paired up, holding each other’s tender hands and smiling into each other’s glistening eyes and it made me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit. So many young faces, so many problems with it all.

First of all, they all looked like they had it going on. All the guys were slim and fashionable, poster boys for American Apparel. And not a pimple on a one of them. All the girls were pretty in punk, way better looking than the girls I went to high school with, and then I realized they were probably all fifteen and I felt like a dirty old man for checking them out. I guess the dimly lit room was a bit of a factor because I understand dark helps with looks. It blots out blemishes, slims silhouettes and basically hides slight imperfections but the blackest part of the universe couldn’t salvage my style. Although the penetrating black that peppered throughout the building couldn’t hide my hideosity, it seemed to make everyone else look better. All these kids with their straight hair and streamlined style. I definitely didn’t look that great in high school. I clean up decently nowadays but it’s still taken me years just to look mediocre. And if only I had a sense of fashion in high school, if I knew how to dress and how to style my hair, maybe I would have had more confidence and would have had the courage to be more outgoing and meet interesting people and go to concerts like these kids. That confidence could have opened up the way for potentially incredible experiences. Instead, my looks forced me to remain dormant, to retire to my room weekend after weekend, with nothing to comfort me but a cheesy movie and cheesecake.

Seeing those high-schoolers reminded me of my high school years and reminded me of why I hated high school, reminded me of the immense rejection I felt every single day. There I was, feeling the effects all over again, realizing I didn’t belong in this crowd. I was left out in high school and here it is, approximately five years later, and I’m still left out, still feeling like a huge mess, untouched and not confident. Ugly then and ugly now. I know, for such an ugly guy, I put a lot of emphasis on looks. I just feel if I would have looked better I wouldn’t have been so insecure and afraid of everything and every one and every opportunity that came my way. Maybe I would have bloomed socially instead of wilting. You’re supposed to make friends in high school, date, develop social skills, forge relationships with people, begin the process of finding out who you are, begin breaking away from the parental units. I never got to experience any of that. High school is a good prep for college, not only in academics but socially and personally as well. And I messed up high school and that directly influenced college sucking so much. And not only that, but I repeated the whole process in college. As much as I said things would change when I moved, as much as I said I would come out completely different, I was still insecure and cut off from people and basically made another huge mess out of the college experience. Sure, I did change in the fact that I now have disdain for just about everyone but I wouldn’t quite call that progress. Bitterness wasn’t exactly the great transformation I was hoping for. And now, I sit back and wonder what else I’m going to mess up. There are times when I feel I am absolutely screwed, that I have completely hurt myself for the rest of my afterlife. College didn’t work out and now I have a mountain of debt waiting in the wings for me as I struggle to find any kind of job at all. I don’t know how I can come out on top when I keep being pushed down again and again.

Ah, those children with their smooth faces and swelling hearts. They have their whole lives ahead of them, time to make decisions, time to make and mend mistakes and the time to figure out their lives. At this point, what is their biggest worry? Crothety Mrs. O'Leary's math test on Monday? Nah, they've got their girlfriends and boyfriends and best friends and that one night of raw rock and nothing else matters. But it all matters to me, the fact that I'm old and damaged and I couldn't shut my mind down long enough to just enjoy the night. Sure, I got lost in the beat of the music but fell languid in the car as I drove home. I don't understand why I can't just have a good time like all the rest. My mind won't allow it. Reminders of my inadequacies always sink in some way or another. It floods every feeling and drowns any kind of positivity until even seeing my favorite band perform live leaves much to be desired.

I feel like nothing will be okay ever again.

Hm, the more I think about it, I'm thinking a birthday cake cone sounds pretty good right about now.

Card-Carrying Corpse

"The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living."
-T.S. Eliot

I am not a zombie. Ha, I wish. No, my status as a dead guy is much less interesting. Actually, I don’t even know what kind of dead I qualify as. I’m not the uber awesome rotting carcass that eats the flesh of the living. I’m not even the moderately neat “walk through walls ghost” kind of dead. I’m just a guy who got caught up and cut up in the sharp knives of the world and didn’t make it out alive. My feelings were filleted and all emotions were excised. I’m trapped in some kind of limbo, a sort of purgatory on Earth. By all outside appearances, I seem alive, if not a bit pallid. And that’s what’s so frustrating about this whole situation. No one knows that my heart doesn’t beat for them or anyone else and I certainly can’t even tell anyone. They’ll think I’m crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m just a corpse. And so I have to go on pretending that I’m fine, that I’m alive and somewhat well while I stumble through my death trying to make sense of it all.

I’ve always heard that death was a release, that death was freedom. That’s crap. If anything, once I died, I was disconnected from all that I knew and held dear and because of that, I was able to look outside of myself and see how boxed in I always was, still am. I guess you could call it a temporary out of body experience, a short shift in my point-of-view. I saw everything from a new perspective but instead of opening up my perceptions, it only closed them in further. I feel more trapped than ever. Death is not the end of pain. Death only exacerbates the emptiness. Sorry to burst your bubble. Not only do I have to go on like a living person but I have to figure out why I’m here now. What purpose do I serve at this point? How do you connect with a cadaver? How do I help people when I’m far from saving myself? Am I forced to stick around until I make some sense of the life I used to have, until I can figure out why and how I made such a mess of things when I was still breathing? Is that the purpose? Is that why I haven’t moved on?

What’s going to happen once I do figure things out, if I ever do? Will I be reinstated into life or will I finally pass over? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I was shoved into this realm of restlessness without an instruction manual, left to feel my way through the doldrums of death, all alone and just as messed up as ever. Wouldn’t you think death would offer at least a few perks? Maybe to reduce my craziness or at least provide some sort of insight to work with, anything but leaving me stranded with the same damaged brain and body that got me into this mess in the first place. Unfortunately I wasn’t offered any kind of benefits package. I’m going to have to work my way from the bottom up, to discover each revelation on my own, to work for my salvation. Is it even possible? What is there to learn? What am I supposed to know that’s not only keeping me here but will help me on the other side? What does it even matter anymore? I’m dead. I’m disconnected, I’m exiled from everything just like I always was so I don’t understand what the point of any of this is. Life made no sense when I was alive and there were days when I just wanted to die to escape the nonsensical role I was given. Well, I got my wish but nothing has changed, nothing has gotten any better.

The only explanation I can think of is that we either all have a purpose or we all need to figure something out until we can pass over. Once we do, we can move on. These lessons are usually reserved for life but I guess sometimes something gets messed up. Wires are crossed. Numbers get switched. Life turns into an uncontrollable mess and death can come unexpectedly before those lessons are learned. And I guess that’s what happened in my case and so here I am, a consequence of the universe’s inability to keep up with the lives and destinies of around six billion people. I mean, really, is it that hard to do? Someone’s gonna get fired for this.

You know, when I went through my teenage years, I felt like my ability to analyze myself and others grew along with my age and my waistline. Ever since I was able to tap into myself in a deep way, I’ve been trying to figure out who I was and why I was. When I began writing, it helped that process, allowed me to not only think about my feelings, but organize them, lay them out in a way that was not only aesthetically pleasing but created a reference point for future pondering. Yet, I felt I never made much progress. Sure, I came close to figuring out why I became overweight, why I never had any real friends, why I always felt insignificant but nothing ever changed. As much as I wrote and as much as I learned about myself, nothing ever stuck. Those epiphanies lasted as long as the length of a page and never extended beyond that. As I was writing, I was learning but as soon as I was done, I went back to the way I was. It seemed as though I never absorbed what I was trying to convey, like there was some kind of revelation repellent coating my heart and mind. Sure, I was able to shoot it out into the world but couldn’t get it to penetrate me. Needless to say, these life lessons have not carried over into my death. I almost feel like I’m starting over. Despite my rotting frame, everything else feels fresh and new, each journey into myself is as if I’ve never been there before, as if I’m meeting a stranger within myself. This is why I have been reading over past pieces of writing and posting them here. I’m trying to reconnect with the lessons I've "learned" while writing them, hoping that if I read them over, if I go back to them, that they will teach me something and that it will finally stick this time, that I’ll gain something and maybe even touch upon that lesson that I was always supposed to learn while alive, so that I may move on to a proper death. The sad part is, it could take years. It took me years of writing to go from suicidally insane to just majorly effed up. What progress. So, obviously this won't be an overnight process. You can't rush the undead.

And so here I am, dead and still interacting with people and pretending to care about old friends, still eating and defecating and sleeping and hurting and doing all the normal things living people do, wearing a mask of humanity and worst of all, still looking for a job. The dead have to eat, too. But, shouldn't death be a full time job? An hours journey into one's self is just as grueling as a full day of work. Especially when the boss is annoying as I am.

I just think being a zombie would be so much easier. They don't have to worry about rehabilitating their souls, rewinding past ruminations or reversing rigor mortis. They are mindless and therefore blissfully apathetic. And they get to eat unashamedly. It's the perfect kind of undeath.

The Results Are In...

Well, I just received a letter from the company that I had to take the aptitude test for and surprisingly enough, I passed. I pretty much didn't think I would because of all of the unanswered math questions I left behind at the end of the test. Maybe the ones I did answer were correct and that was good enough for them. I'm still not very excited because there were still around twenty-five to thirty other applicants that probably did better on the test than I did. For example, if I made a ninety-two on the test, that sounds pretty good but if there were twelve other people that made a one hundred on it, and there's a large number of applicants and they have to be narrowed down, the ones that made the better score are the ones that will be considered. The lady who administered the test said those of us that pass will then be considered by the appropriate supervisor who will then select a few candidates to interview. Like I said, although I might have done well enough to pass these numerous tests so far, I might not make the cut in the end and I won't be called for an interview. And even if I am called for an interview, there's a good chance I could screw it up majorly. Or maybe it might not have anything to do with me at all. I was told throughout college that I shouldn't take rejection personally. There are so many factors that goes into the hiring process that I probably will never even know about and the final decision might not have anything to do with me at all. I guess all I can do is just take it one day at a time and hope that they will in fact call me in and then hope that I'll charm them into thinking I can do the job and then hope that they fall for it.

It's pretty frustrating, though, because there have been so many hoops and hurdles to go through to get this job. First of all, I had to take a speed typing test at the local career center and then fill out a four page application. An entire month later, they then call me in to take this two hour aptitude test and that's where I am at this point. If they call me in after this, I'll then have to endure a grueling interview. It's like, I don't know, I don't think the position is that important to be going through all of these steps. I'm pretty sure my typing test and application (as well as my attached resume) should tell you all you need to know about me and whether I can do the job. I understand the interview is necessary but I don't think all the other stuff is. I don't know. Maybe I'm underestimating the importance of my job, especially considering the fact that they still haven't totally explained what the position entails. I guess it's a pretty big company but still. It just seems unneeded and highfalutin if you ask me. I don't know, I've just made it this far, though all the various tests and all the freaking waiting and so I hope I get it. We'll just have to see.

In other job related news, I've been getting these phone calls on my cell phone saying that they saw my resume on the internet and think I would be great for insurance sales. Like, really? There's no where on my resume that even suggests I'd be into that sort of thing. I don't even know if these phone calls are legitimate, actually. Ever since I smeared my resume all over Craigslist a few months ago, I've been getting a ton of spam e-mails and I'm pretty sure these phone calls are all a part of that. It's just really annoying to see a number pop up on my cell phone and think it's a legitimate job offer only to find out it's not. I get my hopes up so much only to have them dashed.

I saw an opening for a photographer/reporter for the local newspaper. There's a part of me that is interested, depending on what I would have to do. If I went to places and interviewed people and snapped a couple of pictures, I think that would be fun. But, with me living in a town where sports is a religion, I have a feeling I might have to go to all the local baseball and football games. Totally not my scene. But, who knows, maybe I'll get to go to car accidents and photograph mutilated bodies strewn across the highway. I wouldn't mind that. I can just see myself getting a call about a homicide case or a house fire and driving up on the scene with my tape recorder in hand and digital camera around my neck, ready to catch all the late-breaking news. I mean, it would combine writing, which I love, and photography, which I have a definite appreciation for. But, I'm not a photographer and I don't really know what kind of quality they are expecting. Then again, this is just a podunk town so I'm pretty sure the people at the newspaper aren't expecting Herb Ritts quality. All I can do is go in and inquire about the job specifics. I might decide that's exactly what I'd want to do. I always have to keep my options open. Even though the big company job would probably pay more, I can't focus on that job exclusively because if it doesn't work out, I would have missed all these other opportunities. I can't screw myself over like that.

Rhinosinusitis, Baby!

It's official. I'm that can of soup with the dent in it that no one will buy. I'm the puppy with the different sized ears that no one wants to adopt. I am the lone irregular shirt marked 80% off at The Gap. I am that misspelled tattoo. I am damaged goods.

I had to wake up super early this morning to get dressed and go to the doctor. Let's see, he's about the fourth doctor and second ENT that I've seen, all in the hopes of determining what this lump in my throat is, the one I affectionately call the Branny Bump, aka Goiter McGoiterson, aka Chick Magnet. I have to admit, the lump is way more persistent than I am as he's stuck around for three plus years. Sure, he'll go away for a few months but always come back to visit when I get a cold or when allergy season rolls into town. Douche.

So, basically I wasn't satisfied with what previous doctors have told me. I've gotten everything from birth defect to possible Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma (sweet!) but the general consensus has always been, "We don't exactly know what it is or the cause of it but we should probably dig it out!" Um, no thanks. Maybe I'm just a little scalpel shy but I'm not titillated about anyone Ginsu knifing my throat all willy nilly, especially without knowing exactly what's going on inside me. It didn't help when I watched an episode of Mystery Diagnosis when this woman had a large lump removed from her neck and, in the process, had one of her salivary glands or nerves or something severed and it jacked up her face and she ended up looking like a stroke victim, half of her face paralyzed and her speech slurred. That really scared me. And with my luck, that's exactly what would happen. I can't imagine having a smooth operation. They'd end up severing a nerve or decapitating me or even worse, circumcising…oh, wait, never mind. You know, it's like I can either look like I've swallowed a golf ball or look like Larry Flynt. Take your pick.

At this point, though, I was just thinking that I didn't care. I just wanted it out of me. I mean, maybe I'd be okay. Maybe the operation would go smoothly and I could walk about the streets without worrying about angry villagers with torch applications on their iPhones. I'm just tired of looking like a freak, of always being aware that I've got a lump there and that I shouldn't turn my head too much or lift it too much because that makes it all the more noticeable. You know, it's just hard because I'm already self-conscious enough and that was just some totally cruel and unnecessary extra "freak attachment" that was placed upon me without my consent and I was tired of it. I guess I'd rather take that chance and risk further disfigurement for that ever elusive chance at normalcy.

We went out of town for this new guy and I felt a bit better for doing so. I don't want to say that the medical care in my town isn't sufficient for me but I've heard some not so amazing things and after my encounters with them, I wasn't quite comfortable going back. I felt like I wanted a definite diagnosis before any sterilization, lubrication and evisceration began. We walked into the doctor's office and it looked really nice inside. As I was filling out my paperwork, I noticed they had advertisements for facial care products and services such as Botox and facial rejuvenation. It almost looked more like a plastic surgeon's office.

I was called in and the nurse anesthetized my nose and throat so the doctor could stick his snake cam up my nostril. It wasn't as sexy as it sounds. It didn't exactly hurt, just felt like it usually does when I go too deep when picking my nose. And speaking of the doctor, he was pretty cool. He was kind of goofy and talked at a frantic pace. I almost couldn't keep up with his breakneck language. And then he went into Docto-speak, basically explaining what he believed was wrong with me using those hundred dollar words and then breaking it down into laymen's terms.

Here's the situation: In high school, some dumb jock jumped in front of me to hit a volleyball that he was sure I was going to miss. In the process, he slammed me in the nose with his mountain of an elbow and fractured it. And chipped my front tooth. But he won that point and that's all that matters, right? Well, turns out his meatheaded need to score not only fractured my nose and caused it to become crooked, it also caused my septum to become deviated, something that the doctor who treated me for the fracture failed to mention (which is another reason why I wanted to go to someone different for this latest examination). Seems as though this severe deviation caused some drainage problems that effed up a branchial cleft cyst, which just so happens to be a birth defect that I've always had. When I got severely sick a few years ago, that cleft was affected by my sickness, which caused it to inflame and enlarge. Isn’t that great how it all just worked out? Man, I always knew I was defective. And I always knew I hated volleyball. I tried to tell them! It really makes me think, too. I wonder what other kinds of damaged I have lying dormant in me, just waiting for some kind of sickness or other trigger before it surprise attacks my body. So, it seems as though each doctor I’ve seen discovered something about my situation but could never put it all together. The first doctor I saw thought I might have a branchial cleft cyst but never mentioned my deviated septum. I went to an ENT and he discovered the septum issue but acted like it wasn’t a big deal. And as soon as he said I had a deviated septum, I kind of put two and two together and thought maybe since I had that, the phlegm wasn’t draining properly and maybe it was going into some sack in my throat or something. I assumed this because the lump only gets large and painful when I’m sick and when I’m sick I produce a lot of phlegm. It just seemed logical that there was a connection there that the first guy seemed to miss. Well, this guy finally put all the pieces of the puzzle together and said, yes, the breaking of my nose triggered the inflammation of the cyst. So, I've basically been spending this summer undoing all the damage this jerk off jock inflicted upon me so he could win the big game. And the funny thing is he probably wouldn't even care that he's done all of this to me, that his douchebag decision to jump in front of me would cause a chain reaction of bodily malfunctions that have marred and scarred me. Not like it matters to him, though. I'm sure he's off being successful somewhere, humping his football and getting his.

The doctors plan of attack was to first fix my nose. He said he hoped straightening out the septum will allow for proper drainage, which will shrink the cyst so that it’s small enough to become virtually undetectable. I liked the fact that he didn’t want to go cutting into my throat straight away like the other doctor. He was thinking the least invasive, the better. I concur! He said he’d want me to wait around six months after the surgery to see if the cyst goes away and if it does not, then he’d want to go in and remove the cyst. He reassured me that he would go in through a neck crease, though, to minimize scarring. I appreciated that because one of the fears of mine, besides losing the ability to move the left side of my face, is having a huge scar running along my throat. Not only did this guy sound like he knew what he was talking about but he put me at ease about it as well. Not only do I trust him not to paralyze me if he does have to cut into my throat but I feel confident that I won’t look like a recovering slasher victim afterward.

All in all, I feel much better about everything. Turns out the cyst removal might not be necessary at all and recovery from the nose surgery would only take around two days. I think the most reassuring fact about this whole situation is that I feel like I’ve found a doctor that not only knows what he’s talking about but is comforting as well. Another good thing about having the surgery is the fact that I'll hopefully breathe better and not have as many nasal problems. I can breathe out of my nose pretty well, according to what I know but I've had this problem so long I might not realize I could be breathing better. It's like the first time I got glasses and when I put them on, I never even realized how blurred my vision was. Might be the same way with breathing. I also hope it will alleviate my generally annoying nose problems, such as having chronic runny nose and constant snot storage, or what the doctor says is rhinosinusitis. It might even help the next time I get sick because when I get sick, I produce an inhuman amount of phlegm. I know. Try not to get too turned on as I describe my alluring qualities.

I’m scheduled to have my sinuses scanned in a couple of weeks. The doctor will look at them just to make sure that surgery is the way to go and to see if there’s any other funky stuff going on and I’m guessing if that all works out, the next step is surgery. Kind of scary but I’m just glad to finally be making some progress at getting rid of this lump that has haunted me over these past few years. Although I might not get as many ladies without that magical mass secreting the sexiness, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Craptitude Test

Today, I had to take an aptitude based placement test for a job that applied to around a month ago. I was surprised to receive a letter from the company considering how long it had been since I had applied. But, sure enough, the letter said I was scheduled to take the test today and so I did.

So, I walked into the testing area and the place is filled with middle-aged women. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the letter referred to me as Ms. Brannon. I guess the general consensus is that the position I applied for was more of a woman's job but screw that, I am just as competent as those premenopausal Maudes. I took my seat at the end of the row next to a lady and waited for the other people to arrive. I scanned the room and realized I was up against some definite competition. Not only were there at least thirty other applicants but they were probably all much more experienced than I was. I wasn't feeling too good about this. Plus, there was a pretty hefty booklet in front of me as well as an answer sheet and some blank pages that I assumed were to do mathematical work on. Crap. Math. My downfall. It felt like I was in high school taking my ACT test (or SAT for those of you that took that one). A part of me felt like it was hopeless but it worked in my favor because I felt more relaxed. If I screw up it's not like it's going to matter, like I'll be publicly embarrassed or anything. No one even knows who I am.

The actual test began and it was incredibly simple. Boosted my confidence a little bit. Well, until the math. It was the last section and the most dreaded. It started out well enough with questions that had to do with correctly identifying and writing out numbers and then it got into a little addition, some subtraction and then it got tougher with multiplication, division and then I hit a wall with the fractions. In fact, I didn't even get to the fractions. The test was timed and the math portion was twenty-five minutes long and I hadn't even made it half way when the proctor told us we only had five minutes left to complete it. I pooped in my pants a little bit. When she called time, I had around ten answers to go. Not good. But, what could I do? She said pencils down.

I pretty much don't feel good about this job. Not only were those ladies probably more experienced but they can probably actually do math. Growing up with calculators, my mental mathematics are frail and laughable. Oh, well. I didn't have any expectations going into the testing or for the job so I can't say I'm let down, which is a good thing. As I've come to realize, expectations equal disappointment. The lady said the company would be sending out letters telling us if we had passed the test or not. It's not so much that I'm worried about not getting the job, I'm just worried about getting that letter telling me I had failed hard, at least in the math section. I already know I'm kind of dumb and I just don't need that reminder. And have it in writing, no less.

The chances of me becoming a male escort are getting greater every day...

Follicular Homicide

When you think of men, one of the things that probably come to mind is hairiness. And it seems like a lot of men take pride in their hair, whether they are lucky enough to have a thick, full head of hair, a wicked awesome beard or a Tom Selleck approved chest pelt. When it comes to a man’s hairstyle, it seems to be something that goes through different trends every few years or so, not on a monthly basis like most women’s hairstyles. I suppose that’s because women have more hair on their heads to deal with, which opens up the door for a wide variety of styles. Men, on the other hand, usually keep their hair in the short to medium range, limiting the variety of creativity in the cut. Body hair is also something that seems to come up as either fashion forward or a fashion faux pas. Once again, it falls under the spotlight about every few years. Furry bodies are either revered or reviled, going from beastly to beautiful.

When it comes to the hair on a man’s head, no man is more envied than the one that has a full, thick head of hair. Oh yes, women just love to run their delicate fingers through those follicles, don’t they! And it reminds me of a time when I used to have a thick head of hair. In high school, I jumped on the shaggy haired bandwagon and let my usual closely cut hair grow out a bit, going for a more relaxed and ruffled look. My hair turned out to be thick, dark and curly. Cocoa colored curls ran down my scalp and women loved it. I loved that women loved it. And then something tragic happened: college. Yes, that hair that used to be so thick and luxurious soon became thin and lifeless. I attribute my receding ringlets to the immense stress I dealt with while in college but I suppose the blame wouldn’t be complete unless I also pointed the finger at family. I don’t know the entire story about balding and heredity. I’ve heard it comes from your father’s side, your mother’s side and even a combination of both. Either way it goes, I got the short, split end of the genetic stick.

I remember cutting off all of my hair one summer just to keep cool in the sweltering southern heat. When I tried to grow it back the following winter, I realized it wasn’t coming in as quickly or as thickly as it used to. The hair appeared finer, duller. One day, with a lump in my throat, I grabbed a hand mirror and checked the crown of my head with the bathroom mirror. I was horrified at the sight before me. I saw scalp. And I’m not just talking about where the hair was parted thanks to my ever-troublesome cowlick. There was some definite thinning. After witnessing the clearing of my crown, things only got worse. At one point, I even had a hairstylist say to me, “I’m not going to cut your hair in the front right here because, well, you have a receding hairline so we’ll just leave this to cover that up, mmkay?” Ouch. She said it in a snotty manner, too. I knew I was going bald in the back but never really paid any attention to the front. Naturally, I had to confirm the deforestation of my forehead after leaving the salon. I went to my mirror in my room, lifted up my hair and sure enough, the hairline that used to run straight across my head was now wavering and wandering at each end to find the crown of my noggin. As much as I’ve had self-esteem issues, battled my weight and always felt like an overall fugly fellow, it only furthered my frustrations knowing that I was seeing the first signs of baldness. And at twenty-three, no less. To combat my thinning hair, I began taking supplements that promised to promote hair growth and even switched to shampoos that proclaimed to reduce hair loss. I even considered Rogaine at one point. Picture me in Rite-Aid having a staring contest with that blue box. I never did purchase any because, frankly, I wasn’t ready to take that step, to admit that I was that bad off. Not yet, anyway. Not only was I dealing with the loss of the hair on my head but I have also struggled with the fact that the hair on my face is also lacking.

During my first year of college, I roomed with a hardcore pogonophile who frequently brought up the subject of beards. I remember instances in which we’d walk to class together and he’d point out the guys walking by us that had what he considered cool beards or other guys who had “pussy” beards, as he called them: the patchy, barely there kind of facial hair that looked like a fourteen-year-old face planted himself into the dirt. He constantly trimmed his facial hair to stubble length and then grew it out again. To me, I think he took pride in the speed at which he could grow a full beard and constantly pleasured himself by proving how fast he could grow it over and over again. It made him feel manly. Before we left for Christmas vacation, he told me he wasn’t going to trim his beard at all the entire time we were gone. When school started back again in January, I was met by Grizzly Adams. He looked creepier than usual, especially when he stroked it and smiled at me. Ugh. And after several weeks of forcing me to sleep with one eye open, he shaved everything off except for the bush above his lip. He then used my hair wax to fashion himself a greasy handlebar mustache. He thought it was awesome but it was, in actuality, sleazy. One time, he even suggested we have a beard off, a contest consisting of rules that I’m still unclear of. I assumed it was to see who could grow a beard the fastest or maybe who could grow the best looking beard. I politely declined, partly because I thought it was stupid and partly because I didn’t want him to know I was actually afraid all I’d be able to produce was a “pussy” beard.

You see, ever since I started shaving, I just always have. Up until the point my roommate suggested our chin tuft tug of war, I had never allowed my facial hair to grow because I was never sure of what the end result would be. I started shaving later in my adolescence, in my late teens I think, and even then a quick stroke with the razor and I was good for a few days. When I would go a few days without shaving and some hair did start to sprout, it was less than impressive. Instead of a five o’clock shadow, I looked like I had broken out into a bounty of blackheads. Those were signs to me that I probably wouldn’t be able to grow and/or pull off a decent beard. Besides, even if I was able to sport a significant ‘stache, I wasn’t looking forward to that awkward transition period between clean shave and full beard, much the way it is when you go through that weird phase when trying to grow out the hair on your head. Yet, I still thought about it and wondered how it would change my appearance. It was only after graduating from college that I seized the opportunity to find out what kind of manly fuzz my face could muster.

Since I no longer went to school and had no job, I realized that no one had to see me for a while so I decided to be a hairy hermit and try to facilitate some facial growth. It didn’t work out so well. Turns out, the hair on my face comes out pretty sparsely. I gave it about a month, I think, of not shaving before I had to rescind and reach for the razor. I was hoping that the longer the hair got, the thicker it would appear and maybe kind of fill out but it never did. The beard never got full, only long and scraggly. I looked pretty bad. Plus, I didn’t like the way it felt. It was itchy and hurt when I put my face on my pillow. I don’t see how guys with beards can stand it. I became frustrated with my facial hair and decided it wasn’t worth the ridiculous look and irritating discomfort. That night, I had the best shave of my life and my face felt and looked much better for it.

So, here I am, unable to grow a beard and balding. I fear by the time I’m thirty, I’ll end up having more hair on my back than my head. I have to be honest, I feel a little bit cheated. While girls can play with the hair on their heads, guys can change around the look of the hair on their faces, almost like a toy atop their lips. Not for me. I can go smooth and maybe get away with a couple of days worth of stubble but that’s about the extent of the acceptability of my facial fuzz. I almost don’t feel like a whole man, unable to do the one thing that most men can do. I know I’m not in the minority here. It’s probably more common than I realize, as everyone’s hair growth is varied but I still think it sucks. Maybe I’m just over thinking this whole situation. Really, why is hair such a big deal in the first place? Whether you have a lot or a little of it, whether you gain it or lose it and whatever you decide to do with what you have, what does it matter? I suppose it all comes down to aesthetics. And in this day and age, as far as looks are concerned, guys are put under just as much pressure to pluck as the ladies. In the end, it’s nature that’s going to decide the state of your hair and you can fight it all the way to the Bosley clinic but if you’re hairy you’re hairy and if you’re bald you’re bald. You can get it lasered off and transplanted on but it’s troublesome and expensive and maybe we’re all better off letting nature run it’s course. Maybe some girls prefer the smooth faced smooth scalped look. Maybe some girls just don’t care. Maybe I’m just a late bloomer. The hair’s there, just waiting for the right time to mature to fuzzy fruition. Or maybe I should just accept my smooth status and think about all the money I’ll save on shampoo and shave gel.

Past:




Present:



Future??

Willy or Won't He?

Written November 2008.

I am going to be a nude model.

Ever since I took that life drawing class in school and had to draw all of those nude people, I’ve come to appreciate the human form and found beauty in the bodies that I drew: the soft curves and skin textures of women and the hard edges and hair patterns of men. It’s all quite fascinating how we all essentially have the same parts but they can be so different at the same time. A multitude of shapes and sizes and colors and coverings. And what I really found fascinating was that these people were far from perfect. You would never see these bodies gracing the cover of a magazine. Yet, a lot of the models seemed very comfortable with their bodies. Their bodies are imperfect, yet they are perfectly comfortable with themselves. Sure, some of them could be so hard up for money that they would be willing to go nude for aspiring artists but I like to think that they do it for the sheer mutual respect and admiration for the human body.

I advocate nudity. This might sound strange coming from the king of modesty. For example, did you know I don’t own a pair of shorts? I don’t like showing off my legs. And if I weren’t so hot natured, I would wear long sleeves every day. I like to be as covered as I possibly can without interrupting comfort. That’s why I like winter so much: layers. But, the more I see nudity, the more I witness naked bodies, the more comfortable I become with the concept of nudity. I don’t feel as prudish as I used to feel. And the more I see imperfect bodies, the more I become comfortable with my own.

I get so caught up in perfection. I always wish for a model quality body/face/hair/etc. But, when I see these people, I realize that they aren’t model quality but they are okay with themselves and that gives me a bit of hope. They’ve already accepted who they are and they are much happier for it. I always thought I’d only be happy if I had a six pack but I guess I never managed to realize that I could be happy without one.

Take a minute for that to absorb…

And now throw it out of the window.

I want to get ripped and then be photographed nude.

I think my self-acceptance can be a dual process. I think I can learn to love what I have while simultaneously improving upon it. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wishing for better for yourself, as long as it doesn’t get you down or become an obsession. And for me, I’d love to achieve the body I’ve always wanted (in a healthy manner, of course). And once I do, I want to document my success.

I’ve always been shy, not only with my body but with my feelings. Some parts of me just want to be done with it all. It’s pretty exhausting being so secretive all of the time. And it’s not even that I try to be but I suppose I’ve just never had anyone I could really talk to about anything deeper than pop culture. I would like to change that. I’m tired of being ashamed of how I feel and how I look.

When you are naked, you have nothing left to hide. It’s liberating. I’m sure it feels great. It can be scary, but good, to be so exposed. Once you let it all hang out, there’s nothing left to worry about. After everyone has seen the most intimate parts of you, there’s nothing else to fear. How can you hurt me when you’ve seen the worst of me, seen all that I have? You can’t dig at me when I have nothing to hide from you. I mean, if I’m willing to show my willy, there’d be no doubt that I was an open person. And that’s what I’d like to be.

I’ve heard some female celebrities’ reasoning for going nude in such magazines as Playboy was that their bodies aren’t going to last but for a few more years and so they wanted to show what they had before it all went south. Paraphrasing, I remember one celebrity saying “These boobies are only gonna stay up so long! I wanna get them on film before they hit my knees.” That’s reasonable. And that’s another reason why I want to do it. I'd like to snap some photographs before my balls hit my knees! Some people want to capture their youth and beauty while they still have it and for me, I want to capture the progress I’ve made over the years. Once I get ripped, I want to have it captured forever in film so that one day, after it’s all gotten saggy and flabby, I can say that I was once a young stud. The only problem is, now I have to become a young stud.

Just to clarify, my motives are not sexual. I wouldn’t want any shots taken of me stroking it on a bear rug or anything. My photos would be tasteful, natural. I’m looking at it from an artist’s standpoint, as an artistic endeavor, as a mode of self-expression, as a time capsule for my handsomeness and youth. Although, if it were to make me feel sexy and help me get in touch with my long dormant sexuality, then that would be pretty awesome as well. I just want to look sexy and feel sexy and have a picture that corresponds with that feeling.

I think it would be good for the self-esteem. Photography can be an insecure person’s friend. It all goes back to imperfection. No one has the perfect body, even if they appear that they do. There’s no telling how much plucking and tucking it takes to get someone to look the way they do and even that is manipulated when it gets scanned into the computer. At the same time, I keep thinking of the expression “you can’t polish a turd.” And as sophisticated as photo editing programs are nowadays, you can’t turn a troll into a treasure. So, even if most pictures are Photoshopped within an inch of their lives, the starting image still has to be somewhat decent. So, if after all the airbrushing and cutting and pasting, I can look and my nude picture and find myself handsome, take some comfort in knowing that some of that handsomeness is natural and not cooked up using fog or filters. It’s still me, maybe improved upon, but it’s me.

They say even models feel insecure. Well, they don’t look it in those pictures. And if models can feel insecure every day and still take amazing photographs, why can't I as well? And what's so wrong with letting those pictures make me feel good for once in my life, even if it's all airbrushed, even if it's not real. It's something, it's as close to beauty as I'll ever reach, it's all that I've got.

Employment Exasperation II

I had to buy some new pants for my interview today because I'm such an unemployed fatso that I've been doing nothing but sitting around the house and eating and none of my nice pants fit anymore. While I was in town, I stopped by JCPenney to ask if they were hiring. I couldn't believe myself. When I left those doors three plus years ago, I vowed never to enter them again. And there I was, doughy and desperate, wondering if there were any openings for me should I find myself unable to find any other job and should the gun suddenly jam when in my mouth. And unfortunately they weren't hiring. My goof proof backup plan was now kaput. Incredibly scary. My former manager said I could swing by in October and come on board for holiday help. Eeh. Yeah, I'm really hoping I'll have something before then and even after the holidays are over, they might not need me. So I'd end up right back to where I started: unemployed and fat. This is definitely not where I was seeing myself going after graduating.

The more I thought about it, the more the whole out of left field interview seemed. Who was this lady and where did she get my resume and what the heck was the job position she gave me? So many unanswered questions but I felt I was locked in. I had already spoken to her twice over the telephone, both times totally faking my way through the conversation, acting like I knew what she was talking about. I couldn't call her a third time and ask her to once again explain everything to me. What if it was a good opportunity? What if the job would be potentially phenomenal? I'd ruin any chance at it by shining my idiocy her way. Yeah, I was just gonna have to fake it to make it and at some point during the interview, I'd have to chime in with an "Oh, by the way, why the heck am I here again?"

In actuality, I was dreading the entire thing. But, I kept thinking that at least it would be good interview practice. And who knows, maybe she'd give me the job details and I'd be into it. With very few companies responding to my resumes and the now defunct retail escape plan, I was in no position to be shrugging off this totally random job offer.

This morning rolls around and the lady calls me. She said her daughter was going into labor and she was going to be with her and couldn't do the interview today (freaking yes!!) but that I could come in and fill out an application and take a CD that would provide all the baiscs of the job. Sounded good to me. Actually, it worked out really nicely because I wouldn't have to worry about the embarrassment of being interviewed for a mystery job that I knew nothing about and this was the chance to find out what the heck it was before I got too deep into it.
I get there and a young woman in a flowered dress with herpes lip was sitting at a table talking on her cell phone. When she saw me she quickly said, "I'ma have to call you back," and then hung up. I introduced myself and she told me to take an application and then asked if I could be back Monday at one. I took the opportunity to ask her what exactly the job was and what it entailed. Turns out it's door to door insurance sales. Definitely not what I was looking for. In fact, I kind of hesitated when she said that and I mentioned that I hadn't really applied for that and Herpes Lip told me that the lady had probably gotten my resume from the internet and pursued me instead of me pursuing the job and thought I might make a good candidate.

That's weird because:
1) If she found me, she probably should have mentioned that fact instead of just saying, "Hey, would you look to come in for an interview for a job you've never heard of with a company you didn't apply for?" (And in her defense and as I've already stated, I probably should have been more inquisitive as well)
2) My resume was tailored to clerical/office work. I never mentioned anything about sales so I don't know why she thought I'd be a good hire.

I even asked Herpes Lip if there was any chance at office work and she shook her head and said that there wasn't. She said there was only one secretary, her, and she wasn't planning on quitting for a long time. Well, okay then. I went ahead and told her the job wasn't for me and that I wouldn't be coming back in on Monday for that interview. I then excused myself from the room.

Yeah, I pretty much knew that wasn't going to work out but, hey, it was an experience so whatever.

But it's not over.

I got a letter from a company that I did apply for this morning asking me to come in next Tuesday and take an aptitude test. I was kind of surprised because I applied for that job several weeks ago so I had assumed they had hired someone else. But, here I am, scheduled for an aptitude test. And now I'm getting nervous again because I have no idea what the test will entail so I don't know how to prepare. I'm scared there will be a lot of math, my greatest downfall. Once again, I'm going to try not to get my hopes up because I might bomb the test and even if I pass that, the last step is surviving the structured interview. It's almost annoying the hoops and hurdles I have and am going to have to endure to get that job. I had to take a speed typing test first and then fill out a six page application. Next, I have this test and then after that, I've got the interview. Sheesh. But, it is a good job so I guess they gotta weed out people so they can hire the best of the best. The only problem is, I'm not the best of the best. I'm mediocre at best. And so it continues...

Employment Exasperation

So, I was lying in bed like a loser this morning, watching The Food Network and feeling like crap when I got a phone call. Turns out, it was a lady from one of the numerous jobs that I had applied for that wanted to conduct an interview with me. I perked up and grabbed a Post-It to write down all the information on. As she talked, I scribbled away, not really comprehending any of it, just excited that in two months of job searching, I finally at least landed an interview. I hung up with the lady and then it hit me immediately. What was the job for?

For a while there, I was sending in resumes every which a way. It didn’t matter where it was located, how much it paid, or what company it was for. If it looked like I could do it, I applied. What sucks is that most of the websites that listed jobs never explicitly stated the specifics of the job or the company that was hiring. So, after I ended the conversation with this woman, I realized I had no idea what the position was, the salary or even where the job was located. My chest ignited like fire and my cheeks splashed with red. Oh, crap. All I knew was the company name and where she wanted to do the interview. I was so excited I never thought to ask her the specifics. Well, I kind of did but then I didn’t want her thinking I was dumb for not realizing what the job was for. I’m sure if I would have explained the situation she would have understood but I had already ended the call and I didn’t want to call her back and look even dumber. But, if I didn’t ask, how could I prepare myself?

Calling her back-
Pro: If I called and explained the situation, she could tell me what the job was for and I could properly set myself up for a great interview.
Con: I didn't want her thinking I was oblivious because I felt that would show that I wasn't on top of things, wasn't aware of what was going on, which would reflect badly on me and she wouldn't hire me. Plus, the longer I waited, the more suspicious I looked. I mean, if I wasn't sure of the job specifics, why didn't I cal her back right away? Calling right back might be understandable, but waiting the several hours that I waited seems kind of silly.

Faking my way through the interview-
Pro: Maybe I could wing it and she’d never realize I had no idea why I was there. (Wow, does that not feel like some rejected sitcom script or what?)
Con: She’d catch me off guard with a question that I had no way of preparing myself for and she wouldn’t consider me. Plus, I’d be embarrassed in person rather than over the phone if I had just called her.

So, I decided to call her back and just get it over with. I mean, I didn’t want to waste my time or hers by applying for a position that I either didn’t want or wouldn’t be qualified for. I ended up calling her back and she seemed to be fine with me being all dumb and just telling her that I had put in resumes all over Alabama for the past two months and I’ve kind of just lost track of my applications. I didn’t detect any irritation in her voice and she assured me that it was fine. She then explained the position to me and I still didn’t get it! Once again, though, I just nodded my head and smiled and was like, “Okay, I just wanted to confirm the position! Thank you!”

First of all, I have no idea what the position entails. Secondly, I do not remember even applying for that at all! Especially because the job is located in a town nearby that I haven’t even applied to in a month or two, or maybe never at all. Plus, the job position doesn't sound familiar or even sound like a job that I would apply for. But, I mean the lady got my resume from somewhere and thinks I’m qualified for the job, at least on paper. So, who knows, maybe this will work out. Maybe this is just some cosmic random opportunity that has been granted to me. I’m going to try not get excited. Because I have no idea of what I’m gonna have to do, I might realize I can’t or don’t want to do it. Or maybe the lady will think I’m a total loser during the interview and not hire me. There are so many things that can (and with my luck, probably will) go wrong. All I can do is go in with no expectations and just see it as a learning experience, a practice interview for when another job comes around. At least I will have sharpened up my interview skills. The interview is tomorrow at three and I’m queasy. As much as I am trying not to be excited, I can’t help it. What if this is what I’ve been waiting for? What if I’m finally gonna be employed? Or what if it turns out disastrous and I end up right where I started? As pessimistic as I am on the outside, there’s this annoying sliver of hope that is buried in me like a knife and I hate it because even when I try not to be excited about something because I know I’ll get screwed in the end, I can’t help but to hope for the best.

I guess we’ll just have to see what happens. I’m sure either way, it will be very interesting.

Raw Rock Kills!

Saturday night, I dragged an acquaintance of mine, Rebekah, with me two hours to go see Showbread play. Their new album, The Fear of God, released last week and it’s amazing! I have to be honest, I wasn’t feeling it at first. I usually fall in love with their stuff at first listen but this album took a bit longer to like but I’m fine with that. As I’ve always said, the songs that are catchy at first get old the fastest but the ones that take a little longer to appreciate are the ones that have staying power.

So, we get there and we were the oldest two up in that joint! I swear, the average age was a ripe seventeen years old! And talk about hipsters! They don’t have that many tight leggings in ballets. Needless to say, I felt very out of place. You know those guys in their mid-thirties that tries way too hard to be hip and hangs out with the young kids and slaughters contemporary slang? Yeah, I was that dude. I was so glad Rebekah came with me because at least I had someone to talk to.

There were five other bands before Showbread played and they were all actually really good. At the last couple of Showbread shows, the opening bands ranged from alright to garbage so I was glad to see they had some good people playing. There was a local band that especially intrigued me. Very Paramore-ish. The girl even sounded like the delicious Hayley and had that whole “hair shake” thing down pat. They were the best but unfortunately, every time she said their name I couldn’t catch it. I’m sure if I did some online investigation, I could track them down. I would like to hear more from them but I’m too lazy at the moment so I’ll probably put it off until I forget about them entirely. Eh.

It was time for Showbread to play and it was the best show I’ve seen them do. Not only did they play songs from their new album but pulled out some oldies from their former albums. It was so awesome to hear all the old songs I had listened to for so many years being played live. It was like a greatest hits performance. It was intense and loud and jarring to the heart and fantastic! After their performance, I tracked a lot of them down and had my picture taken with them, all except for Patrick. I forgot about him entirely. I had really just intended to take a picture with Josh Dies ‘cause I have during all the other times I’ve seen them so I figured I’d make a tradition out of it but since they were all clumped together I didn’t want to be rude and push them all aside to just take a picture with Josh so when I had my picture taken with a few of them I decided to go ahead and get all of them. Since it was a spontaneous decision, I wasn’t thinking about who all I had gotten but it’s okay, I’ll get them all next time! Unfortunately, the pictures came out horrible. Not that there was anything wrong with any of the pictures, I just wasn’t happy with how my appearance came out is all. Oh well. I’ll just keep them for my own private collection or whatever. I didn’t want to keep anyone from seeing any other fans, I kind of quickly flagged them all one by one, snapped a picture, told them how raw they were, and sent them on their way. But one of the newer guys took the time to talk with me for a bit, which was pretty cool. He was really nice and seemed genuinely excited for Rebekah and I to be there.

Their new album, The Fear of God, is out now and I would encourage everyone to pick it up. As always, even if you don’t love the music, you should read their lyrics. Absolutely incredible. In fact, I'll be super nice and provide the link for you. Click here! The stuff from Anorexia Nervosa and The Fear of God is my favorite material. Enjoy.