Melancholy Monday 1: The Grisly Mop

I've grown my hair out pretty long several times in the past, and for about 5-8 months of that time I wake up every morning bemoaning my existence.

"Woe is me," I say when my eyes open. "My life is but a sludge. A mire, a muck, a morbid mud to be revolted by. Woe is me."

Then I get out of bed and try to go the rest of the day without ever catching my reflection in a mirror, or a dark glass, or the eye of my beholder. It is the least I can do for my own sanity, my own safety.

Unfortunately, those others with whom I share my daily repertoire of duties are not so lucky as I. For they, try as they might, cannot but help their misfortune. For to their eyes, I am not merely a mirror to avoid, but an ever-present source of misery.

I'm sorry, world. I'm so terribly sorry. I wish that there were in this universe the button to press that might speed along our mutual misery. But there is not! No, not! There's nought but to suffer through, to persevere—to defy the torturous blend of hellions and imps before us.

Truly, for 5-8 months I am nothing but a grisly mop of unkept crazy hair. Woe, woe is me.