Metamorphosis

I've always speculated that my job had an adverse affect on how I look and feel. Most would wager, and I would normally agree, that it's a psychological thing--the daily grind mentality taking its toll. Lately though, I have begun to suspect our office's power grid is dependent on the vital force of recent college graduates--their enthusiasm and idealism mostly--to keep everything whizzing and humming. As I walk in the door daily, the halogen lamps overhead brighten. The ambient buzz gains pitch and my feet begin to drag a bit. I walk a little slower. I think my job feeds off me.

All of this was conjecture, of course, until today.

With absolutely no forethought, I stumbled upon something shocking. Let's compare pictures I took trying to decide if I like my new haircut. I couldn't plan this sort of thing if I wanted to; my face normally isn't this pliable. Prepare to witness routine vanity exposing soul-deep truths.

First, from my apartment, this morning:

Note the contented look on my face, bathed in soft, warm light as though I'd just been given a big hug by God himself. The camera naturally swaddles me in beauty blur, as though the shot was taken through a jar of Vaseline. I'm a happy little scamp.

But then, only twenty minutes later:

I look like I've been chasing Quaaludes with kicks to the face. I am the first to arrive but the office is already abuzz with conspiratorial electric hums. I cross the threshold and become Philip Seymour Hoffman. Gaunt, sallow--bedecked with freckles.

Granted, I've always had freckles.

I'll leave you to judge for yourselves, but implore you to remain vigilant against what you have seen.

I'll end this with an apology for not blogging about anything of consequence since, well, ever. Has it been that long? After some gentle nudging from Ben (who has just distilled complaint lit to its essence), I'm going to get to work on the half-dozen or so serious blogs I've been kicking around.

In my defense, they're difficult to start and harder to finish.

In the meantime, here's one for the ladies.

Kafka is doing a tumbling routine in his grave.