Excuse me while I kiss the plastic

Mood: irritated
Today has been a perfect sh-tstorm of aggro, and I am in a foul mood. I only got about three hours sleep, the rest of the night spent wandering the streets of Bakersfield, er, Richmond. It's raining. It's cold. My head is is a miniature version of the heat death of universe because I shaved it. Memo to self: what a dumb, dumb idea. I'm not shaving anything for another 3.5-four years.

Memo to another: if you like bald British bad actors, why don't you get your balls out of your purse, pick up the telephone, and ask Ben Kingsley, Jason Statham, or Jean-Luc Picard out instead of trying to gin-up an ersatz version through hinting? When you make every effort in the world to make yourself look hideously ugly, why should I accomodate your esthetic preferences? What happened to that total package BS you were pushing? Does that only work one way - your way? There are rocks that have a better sense of fashion than you.

No one can look that bad by accident. You must spend 45 minutes a day to get that bottom-of-the-laundry hamper, thrift-store look the way some women spend 45 minutes a day trying to look good. What is that on your head in that photo of you with Molly Malloy? An alien parasite or a hat knitted out of worn-out welcome mats?

Your glasses make you look like a Tennessee preacher's wife who wanted Scopes burned at the stake or Lily Tomlin's Ernestine on a bad hair day.

Better yet, why don't you shave your head and stroll the streets of Richmond in the cold and rain and see how you like it? Or even better, move to London permanently where you can buy your precious Guardian on every street corner. You'll fit right in because they also love animals more than people.

Also, my Kangol got lost or stolen and the duckbill cap just isn't doing the job of keeping my head warm. The cherry on top of the sundae is that my sinuses has gone crazy due to air pollution, spring pollen, and the cloud of cigarette smoke that hovers over this town. I am dripping like a sink in an SRO hotel. Everyone in this freaking city must have a death wish. Is there anybody here who doesn't smoke? I'm beginning to believe there's an argument to be made for assisted suicide.