I Gave My Hands a Bubble Bath

So I went to the salon and I sat in a warm chair and read magazines, and from all of the faces stared back at me the same thing: a beautiful face, full lips, green or blue eyes, and a whole mess of nothing else. The words all kind-of said something but then they didn't. I tried to understand them but they were written for someone else, someone who'd understand the native tongue of the dead. That is not I. So I cracked upon a Bukowski book and read it there in the salon while young ladies in tight clothes complimented my dress and "where'd you get it." I gave them all a tight smile, and leaned back a little further. I felt out of place... I didn't belong in there... All those girls doing the hair and the color, they belonged there and at parties or somewhere else where they could wrinkle their brows at the likes of me. And me? I belonged alone in my room, slowly slow-cooking my mind with the assistance of scrambled verse and piano riffs. And pounding out obscene lyrics that the piano can induce and then chopping down the smooth, smooth silk of a triad, escalating down to sing of Magic and Moons and Dead People Trading Places With ANGELS. There's my place, and I belonged there so I just gave them a tight smile. The smell of baked hair and product caused me to nod off and nod off, but I didn't because that was the point. I had to stay awake and hold down the fort to remain paranoid and fill my head with a continual deluge of shit and think about Life. It was nice, but it exhausted me.

Next on the to-do list: Barnes and Noble it is! I went in there and I walked right up those escalators and right up to the man with a beard and requested some Ben Folds. He herded me over to the F section (of course...) and walked away carelessly. I figured he was a very nice man. Purchased the CDs, and headed back to the car and blasted "Bitch Went Nuts." Odd odd the way people are about their personal life. I wonder if that song was written about me if I'd laugh or feel upset. Probably both, since it usually seems to work that way and I just don't say it. Then I figured something out... It's really hard to be happy and be wise. Wise and happy. They don't go together. You get one or the other: the burden of thought on the wise man, and he's not happy because he's constantly thinking and thinking. And the happy person just kind-of lives like a bee that kills the flowers but he is so happy because he doesn't stop to look back on the dead flowers he left behind. Oh, well, bugger. Things die everyday. Some baby is being born in Japan right now to replace her, don't you worry!

Then in the restaurant,

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