Hairdresser on Fire

Why is everybody always trying to hide the heart that hidden has no use? Yes. Eric Bachmann. Yes.

I'm in love with my new hairdresser, Austin. I told him, "Jem is my name," and he believed me. Synergy forever.

I went to school after my tryst with Austin in order to very seriously sit in the study room and write. I had the vodka shakes. Or something else. I wrote very little, though I sat there for hours. Back tomorrow, with coffee.

The Native Americans believe(d) that their soul was in their hair. If this is true, and the soul isn't mist and smoke but millions of strands that split and die and get greasy and too dry and are chopped with glinty shears, it explains a lot.

I called Sayre this morning and he wanted to know if I wanted to play. I said, 'Play what?' and he said, 'Play like....toys?' Once again, I consented. I told him a train was coming and he was incredulous. Then he wanted me to kill a monster over the phone that he was seeing in his kitchen. Killing consists of grunting loudly: 'Uhhh-unnhhh!' At least I can do that for him, so far away.

Il pleure dans mon coeur comme il pleut dans la ville. Shut up, Verlaine. No really.