On this Leap Year Day, here’s a piece of flash fiction based on this temporally-relevant writing prompt from Reddit’s r/writingprompts board. Enjoy!
Prompt: “You know the problem with immortality? Eventually you just stop caring.” Continue reading
grief
Movember: Week Two – Rise of the ‘Stache
MOVEMBER LOG: DAY 14
As I write this, I can feel the strength returning to my limbs. Even the lightest smattering of facial hair does wonders for the ego. Not that my ego needed any more wonderment.
I’m afraid that there’s no grand melodrama this week. Things seem to have normalized somewhat. That’s not to say that I’m getting used to being (mostly) clean-shaven. But I might have given up hope of ever leaving the denial stage of the grieving process. Considering that the brain invents most of its own reality anyway, perhaps that’s not as much of a problem as I thought it might be.
I’m keeping this update short and sweet. There’ll be a new post coming on Tuesday that I’m pretty excited about, and a lot of other stuff to do besides. I’ll also be checking out 3Men2Souls at the Underground Comedy Club tonight, as should anyone else who’s interested. Stay tuned!
Movember: Week One – Grief, Interrupted
MOVEMBER LOG: DAY 7
Movember continues, and I remain bravely beardless.
One week in, and I still feel like someone close to me has died whenever I feel a smooth cheek under my fingers. I decided to look up the five stages of grief to maybe better understand the feelings that I’m going through, and came to a disturbing realization. I’m hardly even through denial.
“Denial can be conscious or unconscious refusal to accept facts, information, or the reality of the situation.”
I’ve had a pretty decent week. I’ve been writing up a storm, have had some new opportunities coming my way on that front (stay tuned!) and even saw 65daysofstatic live. But the entire time, I’m ricocheting between neurosis and obliviousness. I’ll be just fine and dandy, confidently chatting to someone or pounding away on a keyboard in a cafe somewhere, and the next moment I’ve got eyeballs nervously scanning the room because I’m incredibly self-conscious about my follicular handicap. A minute later, and the worry is gone once I’ve forgotten about it all over again.
My brain is erecting an imaginary shield of facial hair to protect my fragile psyche.
I can only hope that the continued growth of my moustache will help repair my damaged ego/mind/both. I’m walking a very thin line as it is. Healthy people don’t draw beards onto themselves when they snapchat.
 |
| This is not the face of a well-adjusted person. |
It’s not all bad. I’m transitioning well into the next stage: anger. Which is to say I become infuriated every time I see there’s still just a dirty smudge above my lip.
What the hell are you looking at?
(If you’d like to donate to keep me annoyed and babyfaced, then you can do so here.)
Brett Caron 