I’m a creative genius and like many creative geniuses, I get depressed for no good reason. I can’t sleep, eat or work. Writing’s near impossible and finding the energy it takes to get out of bed is like finding plutonium for the flux capacitor.
Wah.
Used to be, when this all went down, I would whine in the corner and drink my way into a pit of despair for weeks. I’m older now and I’m angrier… And tired…er. I don’t have the time or energy to participate in my mind’s mind games. I’m busy and cranky and I just want it fixed.
So I cut off all my hair.
I figured out that if I do something a bit rash and impulsive in the initial throws of a steep decline in my mental health, I can jump start my brain back into the happy, drunken and bacon-filled Fake Rockstar adored my millions… Nay, BILLIONS.
Anyway, I cut it right down to a respectable 9 to 5 cubicle suicide length. Nine months of curly, knotty growth thrown in the refuse, leaving my fat head and bare neck to flap in the gasp-induced breeze of a shocked populace.
I can only hope I stay up beat for another nine months. I don’t have many other things that will grow back, should I hastily decide they need clipping.
Words and dandruff,
-FRS
