Strange mood and can't explain it. Actually, I can. It's a Sunday night. Sunday nights are just typically marred with weird moods. I think it's this vestigal instinct, left over from the days when Sunday night was the last gasp of freedom, but you could never quite enjoy it because the specter of school the next day loomed large and terrible. I don't really feel that way too much anymore, but that Sunday-night feeling lingers anyway.
Gather 'round, children, and I shall tell you a tale. The tale of the lonely one-sided semi-mullet. That's what I have right now. I haven't gotten a haircut for maybe a month, and a month is usually the time the hair starts to run off the rails and look really stupid. We are hitting that point, and this time, it's personal: one side of my hair in the back is growing in all funny, giving me what can only be described as a one-sided semi-mullet...yes, yes, that is the only way it can be described. It's not full and curly and flowering from beneath my checkered Jeff Gordon hat, but it's definitely there. And it's definitely stupid.
It's like Stephen King's IT. This horrifying creature from my childhood calling to me now in my psuedo-adult world. Remember when you had hockey hair? Beep-beep, Richie! WE ALL FLOAT DOWN HERE. And have stupid mullets. 'Cause it's true, in middle school, I had hockey hair. It wasn't full-blown Randy Johnson mullet action, but it was still humilating. Not at the time or anything. At the time I thought it was tight as hell. Until my friends started in with the intense mockery, and even then it persisted stubbornly for a year or so. Same with when I had a center-part and bitchin' spit curls. I have to be incessantly mocked for a good 12-16 months before I consider altering my 'do. It really doesn't matter, I could do anything and my hair would still be an unruly nerdish mass on a laughably large head. It's true.
I have to do a full plot outline for the play, plus the first five pages, by Wednesday. And I have all these ideas, but I have yet to actually put the first word down on the page. It's almost like I'm afraid to start it, because you don't just start something, starting is a commitment to a bunch of sleepless nights and pacing and struggle, starting is a commitment to finishing, and I'm positively no good at finishing. That is why I have all these crazy deadlines. Because it forces me to finish. Starting, I can do. I am the king of beginning. Follow-through, me and follow-through got problems. So I'm afraid to start at all. But I will. By Wednesday.
Still weird mood. Could be because I was listening to The Smiths. I think you could be King of The World and be up late-night rogering a supermodel and smoking a fat cigar while your other eight wives sleep quiety in one of the thousands of rooms in your palatial estate, but then a Smiths song comes on the radio and suddenly you're weeping like a baby. You could be the most content guy in the world and hear "Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want" and suddenly you'd think, "I've got problems." And you thought Dashboard Confessional was defeatist. Jesus P. Christ.
But there's pie in the kitchen.
When I AM King of The World and I do have nine wives, somebody remind me to always keep plenty of pie around. It will be hell on the ol' physique, but it's not like they're fucking me for my good looks at that point anyway. Whatever problems you may have, if you can end a sentence, "but at least there's pie in the kitchen" things really can't be all that bad. Poor, lonely, friendless, one-legged, with a big slice of razzleberry pie. Quit your whining. You could be poor, lonely, friendless, one-legged, and have NO pie. Think about how much that would suck.
And keep thinking. While I steal your pie.