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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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Honto no Folk Blues.

"You went in for a job interview like that?" Claire asked.

"Auwuhr?" I murmured intelligently around my beer. My vast mind was preoccupied with the attempt to recall how to unlock Akira without her helmet in Rival Schools, and it took a moment to refocus.

"You know. The facial hair. It's kinda rockabilly."

"I was just saying that!" Brittany chimed in.

Brittany and Claire. Photo taken during the 1939 New York World's Fair, shortly before their mysterious disappearance in a catastrophic airship accident. In the background on the right is an object widely speculated to be a UFO.

Claire and Brittany are two of my favorite people in the world to drink and break things with. They are also infinitely more style conscious than I am. Or to rephrase that, I am about as style conscious as a dead moose yanked furtively to the side of the road next to a school bus stop at 3 am on a Monday morning, and thus I had entirely forgotten my experiments in facial hair.

I don't really mess with facial hair often. For one thing, I'm almost thirty years old, and my beard hair is STILL patchy in places. The jawline and goatee areas are fine, but there are many spaces on my cheeks (FACIAL), where hair is just too lazy to grow.

After completing my final stint in weekend lockup, I was able to step out into the world a free man: rejuvenated, invigorated, aware of life's meaning and potential in every breath and moment, and determined not to waste any of it. I accomplished this by staying in bed, playing SMT: Nocturne and other video games, and paying gross neglect to all bodily functions. After the local vermin had begun to perish within my "aura of power," after I knocked the moon from the sky and brought Lucifer under my thrall, only then did I realize I had acquired a facial pelt of some depth. It didn't look quite right. People were moving away from me on the bus.

I took a shower.

Ratley, hanging out on my neck here, would never give me shit about my appearance, but then, Ratley is one of the most laid back rats I know, despite the lethal laser optic implants. I mean, granted, she'd eat me, but ONLY after my level of foetor assured her I was dead. She's the sweetest thing ever.

Better, but I was still getting that "good from afar, but far from good" double-take. (Which is fun, but in hindsight I apologize to anybody I've given that look to, it's not as obnoxious as a leer or a sneer, but it's still kinda wack.) I shaved the rough patches on my cheeks, leaving me with a jawline beard, and proceeded to romp around town playing the "I'm a possible terrorist of utterly ambiguous nationality" game with everyone who crossed my path. When the amusement value finally grew thin, I chopped it down to sideburns.

I waited patiently for the sideburns to give me an adamantium skeleton, enhance my already formidable healing factor, and produce unbreakable claws. Then I realized this would only happen if I were from Canada. Despondent, I applied for a job and got an interview the next day.

A couple of days after that , I went to a barber.

He turned me into an asian rapper circa 1993.

Ratley assured me that things were going to turn out all right regardless of what I looked like. That is, after all, things' job. I will also make the guarded hypothesis that, like entropy, nature has a general tendency to get MORE ridiculous rather than less. Cheers.


PS - Thanks for hanging out, teadee, and accompanying me to buy objects of great sharpness and nebulous legality. Had a bomb time. Call me BEFORE dim sum next time. ^_^

And now spectralrain's coming by. And bringing more people soon. ARGH. So much cleaning to do. Errands to run. Phone calls to make. Noooooo tiiiiiimmmmeeee...

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Ducktail? Listen li'l lady, the King orders the WHOLE DAMN DUCK. Mm-aw-huh.

Poor Bec. Due to ill-planning on my part, I'm going to have to drag her sleep-deprived train traveling butt all over town on errands when she gets here. If her brain survives, I'm sure she'll say hi back.

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