I can’t shut up.

Evidently, it takes 1.5 years for a marriage to reach the level of comfort at which one can wander around the apartment, singing at full volume, in a real voice, spouse present.

Dyehead

Pressure!

 

An 80-mph baseball to the head has lent Ann a temporary David Bowie look.

I can’t take a compliment.

“You look really put-together today.”

“Why, do I usually look torn apart?”

Strum-strum.

I have more striped clothing than does an entire cast of Tim Burton characters. Sometimes, I inadvertently end up dressed a little like Elvis in Jailhouse Rock.

Oh, comely.

A few years ago I became obsessed with the Countess de Castiglione because she, like me, was obsessed with her own image. History is full of narcissists, but her endless documentation and control are unique. Later, I quit taking (many) photos of myself,  mostly because I’m not svelte and twenty anymore. I’ve decided not to let those facts further dissuade me.

Because self-portraiture is endlessly amusing.

“It’s mine now.”

  

Moments earlier, he was dancing in one of the fingers, giving the impression that we’d caged in a still-twitching, disembodied hand.

I suffer from delusions.

They used to come in the form of yearning to date people who were utterly wrong for me. Or beginning to date them, and having to cast them off unkindly.

Now I convince myself (a year ago or so) that I want to go back to college, or, more recently, that I really need 0-gauge holes in my ears, so that I can wear glass horns and spirals. Thankfully, I did neither of these things. But on occaision, volcanic, potentially life-shifting thoughts occur to me, assemble into a mosaic shards of boredom or rage, and for a moment or a week there seems to be no stopping the persuasive allure of dumb ideas.

They pass, and I always wonder what brought me to my senses.