In the spirit of National Coming Out Day, I would just like to confirm all your little suspicions: Yes, I am a big homo. Ladies, I’m sorry to disappoint, but it’s true. I like to give it and take it up the butt and in the mouth. (Mom, I’m sorry you had to read that.) In the sack (or behind the shack), I like chest hair and Adam’s apples and external sex organs and chests without soft, fleshy protuberances. And, well, I don’t think it means much more than that. There may be ancillary effects, but I don’t think any of them are direct results of my preference for man-man lovin’. But still, there you have it.
Month: October 2001
Random Shallowness
My hair has achieved optimum length again — short enough to avoid being a problem, long enough to achieve the tossled scruffiness I prefer. This means I’m about halfway between cuts, and that there’s no way I will have a decent haircut when I get to England in November. UK Bloggers consider yourselves warned — I will not have characteristic Brooklyn hipster hair when you meet me.
My hair-care regimen has one basic rule: I must be able to deal with my hair in less than 30 seconds after showering. This rules out the constant trimming required of a crew cut or a shaved head, or the combing or other styling required by longer hair (which I don’t have the hairline for, anyway). Basically, I just like to get out of the shower, smear a fingerful or two of cheap product into my hair to keep it under control, and then leave it in a sort of controlled mess. If I have to take the time to be careful about this in anyway, I shave my head and start to grow it all out again.
In other news, a rigorous regimen of calisthenics and stomach crunches, along with efforts to eat less (we will ignore the pastries with Charlie on Saturday), have already begun to have a visible effect. I don’t have to concentrate as much about holding my stomach in. I remind you all that this is all about getting rid of extra weight that I put on recently so I can back into the stuff I already own. I have not become obsessed with body fascism to any degree, so stop telling me everything’s fine and I’m worrying about nothing. I already know that, and I’m not obsessing about what you keep assuming I am. Chill out.
[This batch of random shallowness is sponsored by the ongoing state of things in New York City in the wake of the WTC disaster, and the current bombing of terrorist camps in Afghanistan. I have been freaked, and continue to be freaked by this entire thing, but I’m just tired of articulating my distress. Suffice to say, it was nice to go to California where people are definitely not as affected as they are here, but I’m back now and it’s still spooky to see all those posters and candles and cops and National Guardsmen and the empty skyline. Thank you, that is all.]