balding angrily

Enjoy.

• Rent a handsome escort. Give him a makeover. Put him in a tuxedo. Train him and enter him into a dog show.
• Buy a house in the suburbs with a lush lawn. Get in the best shape I’ve ever been in my life. Get a perfect tan. Mow my lawn shirtless in the middle of a hot summer, and if I don’t get enough attention from the neighbor-ladies, hire women that look like suburban neighbor-ladies to stand in front of adjacent houses to look at me, fan themselves and wipe their brows.
• Hire an unknown designer to make an outfit with one or more of the following: a duck-billed mask, neon over burlap tights, paperclips scotch-taped to exposed elbows, clown shoes, and hand-skates (roller skates worn on hands). Get today’s Patrick Demarchelier to do a photo shoot. Bribe the editors of Vogue L’Uomo to publish my pictures as the new look of the season.
• Buy a pet tiger. Train her to identify Republicans by scent and eat them.
• Have my entourage throw Skittles in my path whenever I walk in public. Have them whisper, “taste the rainbow” into the ear of any on-looker.
• Have a harem - a female one - complete with large, over-stuffed, silk pillows and incense.
• Buy The Empire State Building. Fill it with packing peanuts.
• Hire the best particle physicists and future-thinkers in the world to build a real Star Trek-like transporter. Hire a team of mathematicians to invent an algorithm that would correctly predict when my favorite male celebrities and athletes were taking a shower and had their eyes closed. Program the transporter with that algorithm so as to transport the celebrity in front of me and transport them back before they open their eyes. Have a job where the constant appearing and disappearing of nude, male celebrities would not bother my co-workers.
• Teach a child to sing.

I’m taking an American Literature class. It’s a community college course, lasts only 11 weeks, and the readings for it are easy enough. The teacher is my age and somewhat frustrating in that he is easily derailed by off-topic lobs thrown by a New York Geriatric that sits in the back.

I’ll call him Professor X because it makes me think that he might have super powers.

Professor X: So, Jefferson and Hamilton had this contentious relationship…they still wanted a Union, but they wanted it in different ways.
NY Geriatric: Why did Hamilton get his head on the $10 bill and Jefferson’s on a nickel?
Professor X: …
Class: …
NY Geriatric: I guess that shows who won THAT fight.
Professor X: Actually, they came to a compromise…
NY Geriatric: I guess they were never married.
Professor X: …
NY Geriatric: They would’ve learned to compromise.
Professor X: This is off the subject, but you know that Jefferson actually had quite a few relationships…
NY Geriatric: Did he have a dog?
Me: If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to beat you with your dentures.

So, besides class, I’m still in a funk about the Aptitude Testing. I feel upside-down…both trapped and with too many possibilities. When I think about scenarios to get out of my situation, my mind races, and I lose sleep. I’m impatient with myself for being so flimsy and frozen.