is to keep me from cutting my own hair ever again. Well, at least from attempting to do any haircut to myself beyond the tried-and-true I-can-do-it-myself uncomplicated bob. So, yeah. I wanted to look sophisticated, and cool– like I was in Ladytron or something:

Instead, I kept screwing it up, so I had to cut it shorter and shorter. I now have the exact haircut that every 14-year-old skater dude in my high school had ca. 1989 (except the back is all messed up. Oops!). Oh well. Luckily, my hair grows pretty fast, so maybe I’ll attempt to un-suckify it in a month or two. Maybe I’ll just dye it pink or something, to distract from the suckiness of it. Maybe I’ll just use the old wear-a-hat-everyday method. Hey, don’t knock it! It kept people from knowing my dad was bald for at least… a couple weeks!

My car is all fixed! The front passenger side tire has had a slow leak for about 6 months. It’s a pain to have to inflate it once or twice a week, especially since Jo burned out the cigarette lighter in my car so we can’t use the air compressor anymore and have to go to an actual gas station in order to do it. So, more money than I can afford later, I now have a car that actually works well again! Apparently, there was also something funky with the fuel pump. Supposedly, the alignment was off, and that was causing the brakes to sound funny (they don’t anymore), and wrecked the back tires. There probably was nothing wrong with it; I was probably getting dicked around by yet another car mechanic, but oh well. I went with it in the off chance that it really was broken. Until I’m smart or knowledgeable enough to be able to prove or disprove what they’re saying, I’ll just deal with it. My car hardly ever has any problems, anyway.

I had the world’s best falafel sandwich at this new Lebanese place in Allston. It was awesome! I could sit in the window and watch all the hot mopey hipster boys slouching by with their hair hanging in their eyes. Damn I miss Allston! However, I see how Medfordians survive. The answer is clearly right before my eyes. Throw away the anti-depressants, dump out all the booze, Happiness is… being Italian. Yes, I saw it on a licence plate frame right here in my very own town. Had I known that decades ago, I probably wouldn’t have invested so much time in listening to the Cure and aspiring to an ascetic lifestyle! All I need to do is become Italian! I wonder what the immigration policy is like over there? I already make a pretty mean linguini and clam sauce…