Ode to follicles, and other bodily parts

I am, so tired that my hair literally hurts. A gusty gutsy wind, and the strands seemingly twist in their roots as I imagine rusted rods in ill-fitting holes would – the stinging suddenness of the cold does not help either.

I have been robbed of my autumn, and demand compensation – give me the sun, if only to look at; even sunlight is icy on a ten-degree morning. Chilled clarity, however, is as surprising as a newly-cleaned pair of glasses, long neglected.

As always, working days melt into each other in long, gooey strands of tedium, late nights of shivery waiting on train platforms, and a (shockingly) noticeable lack of any activity other than the fevered punching of a calculator. Some days, however, the figures are figured out, and everything simply flows; days like these fill me with an intolerable self-satisfaction, which, though, never lasts longer than the inevitable tallying of Hours Worked as opposed to Hours Budgeted For.

On less smugly satisfying days, I wish I’d done something eminently more useful to the world, or better yet, much, much more useless. I can dream, and so can you, but it takes a special kind of someone to do it for a living.

Not to mention a very, very large set of cajones – how apt, Fernando!