Welcome. Have a seat. Story time.

11AM, the final day of 2014's month of March.

Stats:
 Waking weight: 202.4lbs
 Intake so far today: 2 cups of black coffee.
 Appetite: 2/10
 Mood: Shitty, but in a sad way and not really in an angry way.  Not concerning due to reasonable justification.

My grandfather is dying.  That's a terrible way to start a blog.  It's a pretty decent way to start a story, if your intent is to draw people in.  As of this moment, one-and-a-half people know about this blog.  So my intent right now isn't to entertain.  In fact, I have 2 goals:

1. Practice writing.
2. Write.

Look the same, feel different. I do the one to add good to my life, I do the other to remove the bad.

The first time I shaved, I was probably 6 years old.  It's one of my earliest concrete memories.  I remember the color of the bathroom, I think.  It was yellow, like an old painting of Big Bird.  It had those textured walls that hid drywall imperfections, though I remember them mostly for the indoor
cloud-watching they provided.

There was one next to the toilet that looked exactly like Snoopy's face.

But the first time I shaved, it certainly wasn't to remove any bourgeoning 5 o'clock shadow.  It was mid-morning. Just after breakfast, probably.  My grandfather was visiting us in Texas.  I remember 2 things about his grooming - he had a little round red comb that had a finger handle.  He used it to brush his big gray hair.  My hair was almost as big, but black.

It was shorter for a long time.  

It's long again now, which makes me happy.

He had the little red brush, and he had a 3-blade Remington electric shaver.  A power tool for your face!  I don't remember if I asked to use it, or if my youthful curiosity was so visible that he knew what had to be done.  He showed me how it worked on his beard, and then pressed it to my face.  I didn't feel anything, physically, but obviously the memory stuck with me.  The first time I got to shave.

I guess at some point, we forgot the whole shaving lesson.