meet my pet skate, my tidy pharaoh

Yesterday I scavenged Patti Smith files and crammed her into my ears and head. That was before and during work. After work, I crammed her into my ears some more on the drive to get my hair cut and dyed. An hour later, freshly dark dark brown, my hair went under the choppers. In the end, the magician said, I’ve given you Patti Smith hair. Do be careful what you listen to. It will become you. This morning The Good Doctor walked into my office and told me I now look like Cleopatra. A short evening in a hair salon turned me into the visual progeny of Cleopatra and Patti Smith. Do you see the asp at my breast as I belt poetically into the microphone? Now this is my generation. Mark Antony—more grapes! And, no, you won’t be going back to Rome. Instead we both will live infinitely shrouded in pop culture mystery and embellishment.

Today is busy with sleep and headache. Not mine but rather that of foreign tongue and medical expertise up for battle with my red pen. I continue to be thankful I have not caught exploding head syndrome. Sometimes a pair of roller skates would come in handy.