something is changing inside me, and don't you know

So tonight marks Night 18 in the growth of the Facial Hair of Emotional Recovery, a watershed event unmatched in human history, or at least, my own solipsistic view of human history. It would be the most beard ever grown by a person with my DNA, except that I shaved off some of the extraneous neck hair early this morning. The FHOER doesn't look shaven as much as it looks less dirty, but the general effect at present is that of a man with normal testosterone levels who has opted for a Caesar cut for his beard. Ladies, line up on the left for make-outs . . . if you dare!

It also marks with first time I have communicated with Sean's Former Girlfriend since the breakup. Appropriately for a nerd such as I, the communication occurred through e-mail, my preferred medium for dispassionate conversation and Nigerian investment opportunities. The subject concerned the ability of men and women to remain friends outside the context of a romantic/quasi-sexual relationship. It was a lot like When Harry Met Sally . . . only without the humor and fake orgasms. Dispassionately, I wrote back. Indiscriminately, I scattered puns and bon mots. And yet, my hand trembled as I finished composing my reply, and clicked the "Log Out" link. I initially shook it off, insistent on continuing my tabbed web browsing experience, headphones on my ears and determination in my eyes.

Minutes later, I was reading an interview with Paul Simon's old A&R man, who was dogging the one trick pony by attributing his success to Art Garfunkel and the nation of South Africa. As I browsed, Winamp delivered me another random MP3 from my gargantuan playlist, this one "November Rain", by Guns & Roses. The record executive was telling a story about Meat Loaf's "Bat Out of Hell", and calling himself a consigliere, but I found myself distracted by Axl's music. "It is hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain", I thought, or imagined, as if it rained more than nine or ten days per year in San Francisco.

I hardly cared about the executive musing about his decades of sexual harassment and cocaine abuse, focusing instead on Axl and Slash and Duff and Axl's beautiful words. "November Rain" ended, and I sighed audibly, only to be confronted with "Don't Cry (original version)" next. Winamp was set to "shuffle", but honestly, I've seen better shuffling from my seven year-old cousin Ryan when he's trying to do a card trick. Come on, Ryan, use your fucking thumbs! It's not that difficult!

And then, listening intently to the music, my game of Free Cell temporarily forgotten, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Yes, so fragile was my emotional state that Axl Rose reduced me to tears, though to be fair, the underrated harmony vocals from the late Shannon Hoon played a small but significant role in my maudlin reaction. Still, even though Axl assured me that, though I had to make it my own way, I'd be all right now, sugar, I did cry, just a little bit, contrary to the demands of the song's chorus.

I think it's out of my system now, though it was touch and go for a little while there. I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow, in the morning light. Still, gentle readers might wonder, it's been nearly three weeks. Aren't you ever going to get over it, Blogger Sean? For answers, I can only look to my new muse, W. Axl, and say, "Maybe, baby, someday."

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This page contains a single entry by Sean Keane published on April 1, 2004 11:24 PM.

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