It’s weird that as soon as I turned twenty-nine, I was thirty-something. I’m scared to get drunk because of how I’d react to the hangover, it hurts getting out of bed enough as it is. My body seizes when I sleep now, like each night is ten thousand years. I stretch it out on the countertops while I cook my eggs, and I grunt like somebody’s dad while doing it. Nary a move can be made pre-eight a.m. without a solid gasp, grimace, gargle or various other “G” words one could use to describe expenditure of breath upon physical action. When I get up to pee in the middle of the night (which is new), I waddle my ass to the bathroom because my knees have frozen in the sands of time and my hips are the only reliable method of propulsion I have at my disposal.
My old man ear has gotten out of hand. My right ear, right on what I’ve always called “the piece of corn” (you know, that nub part that blocks the hole—it grows out of your face), has sprouted five long-ass hairs that defy the laws of physics by both curling back in and reaching for the stars. If I don’t stay on top of my nose, it becomes blackened with the thick trunks of shrubbery that now lines my nostrils—and don’t even get me started on my facial hair.
Alright fine, let’s talk about my facial hair, or as I like to call it: the god damn sand that haunts my life. Once upon a time, I wanted a beard. It was a mission in my life, as soon as facial hair came about, I would groom it into the most miraculous beard. And then I turned eighteen. No facial hair. A bit of a moustache tried to come through at one point so, I nurtured it along but soon decided that a wispy blonde moustache wasn’t the best look at nineteen. Once I decided to try again, it took a little while, but I grew a glorious moustache at twenty-three—thick and juicy. I combed it to the sides and held it in place with wax; I had a special comb and scissors just for him. You can see pictures of it on Instagram; I had that fella for years, from my sister’s wedding, through mine and to my first anniversary. It wasn’t until I was unemployed that I thought I should take it off. Ever since then, my upper lip has been like sandpaper—much commented-on sandpaper. “You’re so scratchy,” has become the sexiest thing I can hear (sarcasm doesn’t play well on paper in this instance).
My cheeks are lined with patches of finer hair, nothing too scratchy; my neck, however is another story. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, all I can see is a mass growing out of my chin: half Brillo pad, half sand, all trouble. When I shave it off, the sink literally looks like I’ve just been at the beach. And to think, I wanted thick hair all over my entire face and neck. What a fool I was, my poor lil’ skin can’t even handle the abuse it has to go through with this stuff. I feel like my moustache area is always red from shaving, but I literally don’t know what to do past use this de-reddening lotion. I dunno. Getting old seems to suck ass, and I’m not even old.
This is gonna be rough.
See you tomorrow.
This post started as something much different, about how it seems like I’m not writing anymore. I’ve been sick, tired and full of excuses. This is me starting again.