I thought the formula was simple:
If A+|B| ≥ C, then buy Rogaine.
Where A= Vanity
B=Volume of lost hair
C=The cost of Rogaine.
The lowering prices of generic versions of the drug finaly tipped the scales. Unfortunately, my math was wrong. The equation is actually:
If A+|B| ≥ C+(X*Y)+(Z/2) then buy Rogaine.
Where A= Vanity
B=Volume of lost hair
C=The cost of Rogaine.
X=Hours left in the day after first application, during which time my hair will be chemical and oily.
Y= Annoyance at looking like I had used a very bad brand of hair gel for the first hour after use.
Z=Minutes spent each and every day to apply Rogaine correctly.
Apparently, I need to lose more hair...
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Celebrate Early And Often
I celebrated St. Patrick's day without drinking, International Waffle Day by having French toast, the Arockalpse without rocking out, and April Fool's day without playing an elaborate prank that destroyed the bonds of friendship between two people. I plan to compensate by getting my Easter on, whatever that entails. I'm not exactly sure, but it should be fun. Spring is coming, and I have heard the proof of it!
Two days ago, I was awakened by the noise of bongo drums. There was a man outside of my windows, sitting on a bench, playing his heart out. For two hours, I could hear the arrhythmic bap-bapping creeping in through the window. Every fifteen seconds, he would change the rhythm, syncing up with a magical drum circle only he could hear. Because why else would he refuse the siren call of maintaining a good beat?
Chalk this up as one of the minor mysteries of Spring. Another is the Christmas tree that stands across the Theatre. I can't remember if it was up there when I first moved in, but its certainly stayed put since then. It still has random ornaments clinging to it, in defiance of the first bongo player of spring. And on some nights, it is proudly lit up, just to let us know that someone wants it there.
It's no Christmas Tree From Hell, but I grow suspicious about its true intentions.
Two days ago, I was awakened by the noise of bongo drums. There was a man outside of my windows, sitting on a bench, playing his heart out. For two hours, I could hear the arrhythmic bap-bapping creeping in through the window. Every fifteen seconds, he would change the rhythm, syncing up with a magical drum circle only he could hear. Because why else would he refuse the siren call of maintaining a good beat?
Chalk this up as one of the minor mysteries of Spring. Another is the Christmas tree that stands across the Theatre. I can't remember if it was up there when I first moved in, but its certainly stayed put since then. It still has random ornaments clinging to it, in defiance of the first bongo player of spring. And on some nights, it is proudly lit up, just to let us know that someone wants it there.
It's no Christmas Tree From Hell, but I grow suspicious about its true intentions.
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