March 7, 2008 :: By the hair of my chinny chin-chin

I have this hair on my chin. A monstrous black cord that projects laterally from a tiny scar just on the crag of my jaw. I remember getting the scar (an unfortunate but sadly not uncommon meeting of a very hyper young me and the solid-wood door jamb in my parents' house). What I don't remember is when I turned into the wicked witch of the west and began growing tree-trunks out of my pores.

Regardless, it's nearly always there, because it seemingly grows an inch a day, and contains all the nerves in my face. It tingles. It zings and zangs. I pluck it out every chance I get, and between, I obsess over it.

This is a not so nice part of my personality that I've realized can sway leisurely between "aw, that's cute. She's making another list," to "Who's that twitchy girl in the corner?" with crazy rapidity. The song-lyric/repetitive word thing is another manifestation.

What's great is knowing that most of the people I know do similarly odd things. I won't repeat too many here to protect the seemingly normal. But I will say that I appreciate that one of Blake's quirks involve hashing and re-hashing how awesome The Replacements are, over and over, as if he's attempting to convert me to a particularly radical religion.

Well, I don't know that I can argue that Paul Westerberg is likely some kind of a prophet.

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