Ah, yes, the boredom factor again. What the crap was going on in my head, I don't know. But one night I was sitting with my head in the closet (the doors having long been removed), lights off, incense burning, music blaring. Preston and other roommates were rumaging around, on their way to somewhere, or coming back from somewhere. It didn't matter.
We had gone through another phase with our room, and had pulled down almost all of the pictures and posters on the walls. The room was stark and bare -- and it affected me. At least the Phred the Hippie picture remained intact.
I wandered out into the hall and into the bathroom, and surveyed my tools. A bar of soap, some cologne, a bottle of shaving cream. I quickly shook the can, filling my hand with the foam -- and then smeared the white over my neck and face, and also into my hair. I believe I was listening to Front 242 at the time, or possibly Ministry. But I began to dance and flail, and I allowed the spittle to work its way down my chin and into my shirt.
Nobody ever tried to understand the mad dog, and I only departed into the madness on rare occasion. There really was no point -- but it sure beat just sitting there.
Anyway, I thought it was noteworthy.
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