Fifteen Pounds of Fuck-Puppy in a Ten-Pound Bag (tableau_vivant) wrote,
Fifteen Pounds of Fuck-Puppy in a Ten-Pound Bag
tableau_vivant

  • Mood:
  • Music:

Feed Me.

It's a rainy Saturday afternoon. Your hair is bothering you, so you decide to cut it.

You put on your Cream and your Dead Kennedys and your Pixies and you get to work on your bangs, which are more than halfway down your face. Not exactly bangs anymore. You get to work.

Half an hour later, you look a little bit like Hayley Mills. In Pollyanna.

The upside is that if you do choose to go out for Halloween, you will make a passable Barbarella. The bad news is Hayley Mills for Christ's sake.

You are not terribly alarmed because it will a) adjust to the shock and move in a more sophisticated direction in your sleep, b) grow out again, c) both.

The only alarming thing is that it is not 1969 nor is it 1979 nor is it 1987. And you are not sixteen. It is 2004, you are twenty and a half, you should know better than to cut your own hair, and it's time to put your Interpol back on.


"Me".
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