The Perks of Being a Cuban.

Alright. my hair's going through weird things at the moment. Since it was chopped off sloppily a few months ago, it's not yet recuperated or grown out properly. It has good days and bad, but at least it feels really nice. But I don't really plan on getting it cut for the simple fact that I can never find a good hair place. And I've never gotten a perfect hair cut.

I realize as i think about it how much i hate the entire hair cutting experience. It's all really an embarrassing ordeal isn't it? You've got to show up to this place with ideas in your hair of unfulfillable hairspectations-- other peoples hair you think you can pull off properly, and from the minute you begin describing what you want, shame ensues.

It's all very emasculating, not that I'm particularly burly, with my slim pants and fancy sunglasses. After your hair's washed with the sweet smelling shampoo, you're made to walk around the entire hair place with a towel wrapped ornately round your head. And you're trying to not wet the ground or wet your clothes, so here you are, with a towel on your head (maybe even a pink towel) doing a funny walk.

The hair cuts not too embarrassing. I don't like talking to the cutter-guy while they're doing their job. Firstly because I've got nothing particularly interesting or sparky to share with them, and second because I imagine if they've got time for a chin wag, they're very well not focused on making my hair look sexy. And my sexiness must be number one priority.

My least favorite part is the end, where you stare yourself down in the mirror, looking all awkward as we all do right after a haircut. Feeling a bit idiotic and unsure of yourself. And then there's the silence. The hairdresser's fishing for compliments and approval. No use really, if it's a crap haircut the damage has been done. What can you say really, other than "goodbye?" They can't grown the hair back for you. Telling them they've done a crap job after the fact is no use.

So, no haircut for me for a while. Not until I find someone I can trust.

I write a lot of things. I barely share them anymore. My lyrics have melody now, which makes them weaker verbally but more cohesive. So I'm proud of them. I've just started writing a TV script, for fun obviously as I have no ins in the television world and it's barely any good. I get inspired a lot by other people's words. That's why it takes me so long to get any reading done. I'm reading Little Children by Tom Perrotta right now. He's one of the most brilliant authors of this generation in my opinion. I so admire his grasp of language and his impeccable understanding of the neurotic human mind. I hope to one day be half as emotionally aware as he is, and a third as verbal about it. He's inspired me a lot lately. The testament to a great author is one whose words inspire yo rto write down some of your own. It has taken me forever to finish this book because every page fills me with more ideas about my own characters. And I'm extremely grateful, because otherwise I would barely be writing at all.
Truthfully, I've missed the process, having not completed any worthwhile or substantial amounts of writing since 2006. I'm trying to get back into it. It's so difficult to motivate oneself when there is'nt the slightest bit of pressure behind the work you're creating. There is no due date, no one to read it, not a single person to forcinly share it with like a teacher, editor etc. I could send it to whoever i wanted, a friend, an old now cold and distant former teacher, anyone I wanted really. I could post it on those strange crative writing forums. But what's the use? There's no due date or deadline. I have all the time in the world to create something out of nothing or to just create nothig at all. It's terrifying. I need to start again, it would be nice. It would maybe stop my mind from creating dialogues between fictional characters. I've played whole movies in my mind that I havent written. In my head there are even a few shitty drafts of "She Loves Lucy" my Lesbian sitcom. I've just begun writing "Wasteland" a teen drama based on the UK show "Skins." It won't be going anywhere. But at least I'm not just wasting my tothing.

Not really. Nothing's really changed. Maybe it's time for a change? I feel like I am very boring. I don't know why. Just today. A lot of the time I think I'm awesome. Today I feel boring. I think I'll start wearing cologne again. I stopped when I started going to high school. In a school for all boys there's absolutely nobody to smell nice for. Even though at Fordham there's no one in particular, maybe it doesn't hurtto smell nice? I don't have B O or anything, I just wanna try something different. So I've been googling and ordered free samples of some colognes, just to see. If i don't like any, no biggie, they're free.
I keep missing my hair cut appointment. I need to find a good place to go to around here, some place that cuts young people's hair. I've gotten my hair cut by old men my whole life. Which at times has resulted in sub par hair results. I kinda wanna dye my hair. Is that weird? Would that be weird? I dunno, it's almost summer time and I still feel very "wintery."
I already told everyone I know who lives near the beach that we are totally going this summer. I'm usually not a beach fan. I don't know what's wrong with me, I'm dying to go. I like the ocean, I hate the sand, I hate the sun. I hate the heat. WHY do i wanna go to the beach so much? I don't get it! but i really really do. I need to buy board horts. Maybe I'll intentionally miss my bus tomorrow and go shopping at quiksilver/billabong/element.
I'm still writing, semi-daily. I find a lot of my writing hasds gotten more simplified now that I write with melody. There are melodies in my head despite my lack of playing any instrument. I wish I could play an instrument, it would be nice. So because the writing isnt as good without the melody, I've stopped posing a lot of my writting, But that doesn't mean that I've stopped blogging or stopped writing. See? I totally remembered my password to blogspot, so there.