Friday, January 4, 2013


Hair, I am thinking after shaving, I hate hair. I feel incredibly grateful for whomever created laser hair removal, and further still grateful for the creative bastard who came up with a home device for such a purpose. I use the device on my abs, my legs, my chest, loving the results. I watch the city far below me, vibrant, dead and alive, like a corpse left in the sun, fetid, being feasted on. I ignore the texts from that whore I used to love and get ready to go out to dinner at a 1-Michelin Star restaurant with my sister and her husband. Once there, some crazy black woman with a mohawk takes our jackets and hangs them up and gives me the tag. I nod my thanks to her and stare with longing at my CK jacket as she handles it roughly, like a jacket. We eat, and there is conversation, interspersed with my sister's husband's disconcerting and odd sense of humor, which makes me laugh but is totally inappropriate, mostly sex jokes about my sister. The pace of dinner slows, and across the room, I notice an old white man with two beautiful women. He must be sixty, the women a third of that. Rage fills the cavity in my chest until I see that the blonde one is staring at me. I am noticeable; I am in shape, my hair is perfect. I look GQ, and this is a disguise, but she does not know that, she knows none of it as I stare at her and her eyes meet mine. I tilt my head to the side, and time slows as I stare into her green eyes, so familiar even though I have never met her. Time freezes, I stare alternately at her and her perfect figure and the steak knife on my table. The moment ends, and I stare out of the window at the cold world below and around, the wind must be screaming, and so must I.

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