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Yesterday I went for a haircut and elected to go quite short again. Also I shaved this week, so I have less hair on my head area than I have had for some time. Hair covers a multitude of sins. Short hair on my head exposes the slight thinning on top and getting rid of my beard not only lets people count my chins but when looking in the mirror I noticed I had the beginnings of the kind of neck vagina that President Trump has.
Mine is definitely not of Trump proportions yet. Trump's neck vagina is so pronounced that it is possible to have sex with it. Mine is only just starting to stretch its way from my lower neck to my chin, but it's on the way. To think, in the lifetime of this blog, I worried about getting a few grey hairs and now am facing loose skin forming into caricatures of genitalia.
Today the neck vagina was not so pronounced. Maybe there was something about the angle I was sitting at
As disappointing as it is to have physical evidence that I am no longer 25, I am not the kind of person who will attempt to cover up or hide the signs of ageing. I don't want to be one of those guys in their sixties with a shade of brown hair that doesn't exist in nature (or is it just that hair is never quite that uniform in colour?) and I will learn to love my neck vagina, should it grow into something as magnificent as Trump's. Perhaps incorporate it in my love making. Am I flexible enough to have sex with my own neck vagina? It's an extra stretch from sucking your own cock, but it's worth a shot. Or maybe I can find a neck vagina support group where men with neck vaginas question what having both sets of genitals means for them and how they can get equal status in a world that believes the definition for man and woman are not fluid and that any deviation from their perceived norm makes you something that you feel you are not. We could learn to live with our jowl genitalia and then afterwards go to the pub, get drunk and maybe fuck each other in the neck.
I don't know. I'm just spitballing. Trying to come to terms with this affliction that few people ever talk about and that other people mock.
I just checked myself in the mirror and couldn't see the neck vagina at all. Is it wrong to feel disappointed that I might not got one?
Into town tonight to see Paul F Tompkins and a team of amazing performers in The Thrilling Adventure Hour. I had no idea of what to expect with this and hadn't ever encountered it before and so to begin with I was confused (whilst the rest of the audience was in raptures) but I tuned into it and had a lot of fun. I know better than anyone what it's like to create projects full of in-jokes and weirdness that must be incomprehensible to people starting at episode 138 or 99f.
Weirdly on the train there at about 5.40pm I had been thinking about what to do in the event of an incident (maybe not weirdly, as I often spend my time thinking about how I would react in a disaster) and looked around the carriage to see if there was anything I could protect myself with. I could only see a fire extinguisher under a seat, but that might work both as something to shoot in someone's face or clock them in the head with. I don't know why I feel like I am an action hero in my mind. My only use if such circumstances would be to get my body in the way if someone more worthy of living was in the vicinity.
A couple hours of later on a train that would have passed through Hitchin people were presented with this as a reality. I'd say it was unthinkable, but I'd just been thinking about it.
It was strange travelling back home tonight after the news had broken and passengers were aware of the basics of what had happened. Trains that travelled on that line were cancelled and without knowing details we were inevitably left to wonder if something else might happen. Yet there was no palpable fear, just an unspoken acknowledgement that that could have happened to any of us and a weird acceptance that we just had to carry on. Not out of any sense of bravery or even united spirit, just because what was the alternative? How else would we get home? The only real difference to a more regular hold up was that no one was really complaining about having to wait 20 minutes or take a bus. Whatever the reason for this random act of horrific violence, we knew we were lucky.
