Hoy

I have forgotten enough of how to approach strange women that my charmingly brash forwardness hits fault during startup, but with enough time to abort way before being creepy starts.

I need a haircut. And contacts.

Three beautiful types. 1: small, together, professional-but-hip, smooth skin, slender, flawless bit and just enough other. 2: Sloppy sexy, jello boobs and black, art supplies and hard-candy, dressed comfortable casual out of simple one-piece broken formal. 3: Hip skinny greek statue-woman carved in aryan, short curly blonde hair, tall as me and monsters and totally composed leaning against the pillar on 13th.

Three-minus-three ways to strike up a bit of hello that's nice. Not halfway bad at that, once I get there, except for the tactless shameless offensiveness. I don't even pretend to call it "honest", but still, I've gotten away with calling beautiful skinny women "Fatty" during first impressions and gotten a call back and dates two-three and on.

It can be done.

Damn long day, too. Poorly-worded assignments with bizarre and unintuitive work required. Badly designed programs necessary for my work and the varyingly more and less important work of thousands hit me at every damn angle. And I still haven't photoshopped those pictures of hands holding axes, hammers, screwdrivers, hairbrushes onto a neutral grey background. There's forty and that's too damn many when you've never used the 'shop for more than screwing around and I think that was middleschool. I also remember making a sweet pickle-like coinpurse by purposefully screwing up when baking the rubber. Might have it somewhere but who uses coin purses? And I may have mentioned, short nights for sleeping. Ah, to be young, drunk, and wandering around my neighborhood looking for your keys in the dark. It's a beautiful way to be alive. And last night there were strange dreams and earth-pigs and the sudden creation of a new and never-before-used inside-my-head voice of strange nuance and detail as a parting commentator before I left to wake up.

On the upside, "Cerebus" is genius and insane when normally you hear that and it's just "Mildly clever and BiZZZarro", a little weird but written big, or a disappointing wreck of time and memory. But "Cerebus"? Insane. And the first meta author-meets-the-authored bit that didn't make me roll my eyes like a bored epileptic. The man has issues, but they're clear and deep and put down with a firm enough hand that the musings are more like a treatise bred with a story than a limp-brained mental masturbation rubbing up against books of illustrated philosophy and down against easy-emotion iconography. Also, he's a fucking third-person-pronouns aardvark. All that... and more! I want to recommend it to everyone, but it will just come as crazy for most folk. It really is good, though. -EDIT- Looked at the wikipedia article of it, turns out that what I thought was the rough and crazy patch of what appeared to be misogyny was nowhere NEAR to how bad it gets at the end. I mean, creating an "evil Feminist-homosexual axis" or however he phrased it, one fighting for the right to be pedophiles and zoophiliacs? That is a million times farther than it needs to be. Of course, this from a man that was hospitalized from LSD use. Take that however you need to, right.

Ah well. We'll sleep and see.