sightpirate

The staircase worries me. My new social theory seems to be correct, which means I'm everything I hate. A girl likes me. She's less attractive and popular than me, but she does her best to find common ground between us, like music. She's careful not to make too much contact, just the occasional mutual “like” on Facebook. I see through her tactics. I joke about her, talk about her behind her back, laugh at her expense. I like a girl. I'm less attractive and popular than her, but I think I've found some common ground between us; we like the same music. I don't make too much contact, just the occasional mutua

Today, I shaved my head. It felt so new, the air on my skin. So vulnerable. Open. The sun shone hot. Rain came. The sensations were amplified. Hot, soothing. Cold, wet. It was easy to fit into a crowd of strangers. No mohawk. No staring eyes. When I looked in the mirror, I was anxious. Anxious that, maybe, looking the part would make me act a man. For once. For Dad. I've been wrong about this before.