Getting old(er).

That was the cue to stop taking pictures

Last weekend at B’s birthday dinner a woman sitting at an adjacent table leaned over and asked “oh, is it your 21st birthday?” to B. He laughed and said yes. I think we both thought she would know he was kidding. She believed him. I think she was drunk. She was wasted.

Monday I found a patch of gray hair. And by patch I mean, 5 or 6 all in one area. I have eradicated them, and by that I mean, I removed them from my scalp because I couldn’t deal. There is one piece that was too short, and keeps poking out. It’s a sign that it’s supposed to stay there, I guess. I’ve vowed to not pull any more out.

In any case, if I was upset about the gray hair, I can at least be comforted by this: I had to go to the Pratt main campus in Brooklyn this morning to do some research. I took out Metropolis (btw, just typed “Metropolis” as “Metropolish” like 5 times) from the media library, where there was an undergrad working. Or who I assume was an undergrad. Who also probably assumed by my v-neck tee and bookbag that I was also an undergrad. The exchange was minimal, but I swear I saw a hint of “hope to see you around campus” from which I became nervous and awkwardly scurried away from the desk. If he didn’t think I was 20 by my complete outfit, he at least thought I was an awkward, which is a sign of youthfulness… right?


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