I’ve always said you can tell a lot about somebody by what he reads. If eyes are the window to the soul, books are the curtains. No, I’m not sure what that means.
My own reading pile functions similarly to the mirror in my bathroom; it allows me to study myself to make sure I’m still into sleeping with myself.
Do you think those people in creepy couples who look like siblings are extremely self-aware?
While we’re on any subject, I haven’t been so into myself lately. What’s to blame? Maybe it’s the continued failure of this column to net me the girl of my dreams. It’s almost as if turning to the internet to solve my dating problems is a ridiculous concept, or some postmodern exercise nobody (least of all, Gene) signed up for. Or, maybe my mood has something to do with my new pen pal, Bandish, who has been in a savage mood lately and taking it out on me. Whatever, I’m not talking about him or to him until he stops icing me out on Snapchat.
Oh, by the way, I figured out what a “d—— pick” is. The hard way.
Anyway, my self-esteem has been flaccid lately. I need a haircut. All the shirts I like are in the laundry. I’ve been wearing these erstwhile skinny jeans that are now kind of loose, straight, denim shafts, which, anchored by a pair of Sketchers, make my legs look like toothpicks somebody bought in the 90s. Because that’s when Sketchers were cool.
It’s the “S.”
I wonder what an “s—— pick” would entail.
At some point, wearing these jeans every day and not washing them will render them JNCO toothpicks.
I wonder if I can bring hemp necklaces back.
Regardless of how I feel about myself now, I looked good in the 90s. I just know it.
Sometimes, when I’m drunk, I go to The Facebook, pull up pictures of myself, lean my face to within an inch of the monitor, and deconstruct them like some nostalgic, self-loathing facial recognition and physiognomy expert. Who the hell is that person? What did he know that I’ve lost? What have I gained? Why am I sad he is gone? Does anybody else worry about losing him?
I think they call the process I just described “aging gracefully.”
The earliest pictures I have on The Facebook are from 2000. I no longer have any idea how I looked before then. So, let’s just assume I looked great. From 2000 on, I have far too much proof to the contrary.
Did you guy know that Fred Durst did an AMA last month?
I have less idea how I look right now than at any other point in my cognizant life. My face feels different than when I last knew it well. I suspect I would be surprised by the way my expressions fall across my features. I just don’t look at myself enough anymore. I’m too busy working, or reading, or looking at people I care for. From the apartment across the street. With binoculars. And Snapchat open.
This is turning into the Southern Hemisphere version of this column. The spiral is going the wrong direction. So, let’s pull out of the spiral, Goose. Speaking of aging gracefully, isn’t it amazing what happened to Val Kilmer’s head? Do you think he ever looks at old The Facebook photos and wonders what the hell happened?
What if this is what all Buzzfeed articles were like? And by that, I mean not shitty.
I don’t mean that! Not fair! That’s low-hanging fruit and … backpedal, backpedal, backpedal.
Here’s a way to get at the elusive point (yes, this column occasionally has a point, often more than one, and sometimes I’m even in control of how and when they are delivered): A brief story.
I was big in 2011. Things directly related to my ego were going well. I knew how I looked. I was depressed often.
Now, what am I? Less big, by choice. One might even say smaller; worse looking, maybe. I’m not even sure. I think I’m happier. Much happier. That’s pretty nice.
I bet I was happy in the 90s too.
I’m still not sure I would sleep with myself.
Shit, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, right. Okay, let’s get going.
I’ve always said you can tell a lot about somebody by what he reads … nah, I’ll just save that for next time. I think I’ve made my point here. Actually, I’m not sure I’ve made my point here. You know what? I’m not going to over-think it.