At Least They're Committed

I appear to be right at home in Grand Junction. With these stress lesions boiling up all over my face, and my ratted hair in desperate need of a trim, I look like any of the meth-heads that flop here.

The walls of my folks’ basement are covered with severed, stuffed animal heads. Dez thought they were awesome, especially the buffalo head (I call her Beatrice) and the black bear rug (Freddy II). The walls are so full, in fact, that a head or two rest(s) on the carpet. Sometimes I get to be the recipient of the cast-offs, which is cool. I have one deer head named Dear, an elk named Norther Winslow and a boar called Socrates (Bill and Ted enunciation preferred).

Dez was pointing out the eyes and nose and ears on the floored deer and it made me think back to my latest “deer in headlights” moment. A comment was made to me by someone about being unable to think of anything off the “top of my head,” because there wasn’t much on the “top of my head” and I of course had to analyze.

A) Is he referring to brain cells?

B) Is he referring to hair?

C) Is this person self conscious about his hair? If so, why?

D) Maybe he means brain and hair?

E) At least he has hair.

F) I have way too much hair and way too few brain cells.

G) Can I be any blonder?

At this point, of course, several seconds had gone by and I realized I was sitting there staring and saying nothing, vapid eyes blinking. So I mumbled something and went on with the discussion, chuckling to myself that Cathy ever,  EVER had the notion that we were clever.

I lightly rub my fingers over the rash of tiny scabs below my right eyebrow and I unconsciously rub the smudged spot on my nail polish, both of which complement my fashionable meth-motif. Yeah, don’t get your brows or nails done at the mall in Grand Junction. My senses are intact, thank you very much, and just because I look like a desperate stoner doesn’t mean I should be treated like one.