Cosmic, Accident

I was sitting in Joe the Barber's waiting for Sam to get done with his haircut. I'd already gotten mine (and if you've never had your head shaved with a straight razor, you haven't lived) and I was reading gloss. gloss is a small-format, local periodical that's made up almost entirely of ads for dance clubs and choir-preaching editorials, but it's better than nothing (well, arguably).

[beat]

Ok, right now Joan Rivers and Shannen Doherty are on an episode of The Graham Norton Effect and I uttered to Sam words that I never thought I'd say: Poor Shannen Doherty. Joan is telling her trademark two-part tasteless jokes and Shannen is mortified. Nuff said.

[beat]

Anyway, I was flipping through gloss and near the back were the horoscopes (or, given that it's gloss, whore-oscopes?). I read mine, and for the first time, I felt like I couldn't even try to apply this or any horoscope to myself. It made assumptions of mobility and participation and ability. I mean, how was I going to keep my life on track when it's not on track now? Have you ever noticed that horoscopes don't ever answer that type of question?

Then again, am I so desperate that I'm insisting that a gloss whore-oscope come through for me? Then again, I'd missed a couple of doses of neurontin, so my brain was [mis?]firing again on all cylinders.

Then again. Stir crazy. Yeaaah.

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