Mean and Morose

Recently I was told by someone that I met that they had not wanted to speak to me, approach me, “spend any energy” on me because I looked mean and morose. Mean and morose?

Mean yes, I’ve heard that plenty of times. In fact I think I may have developed and even enhanced that look just to keep people, specifically the old lechers that you find in the gay arena away from me. When I was young I had that look of fresh meat that many older men seemed to be attracted to. Of course now that I have become an old letch myself, that look should have been something I should have dropped a long time ago. But morose? Morose is the look you have when you know Boris Karloff is outside your door waiting to take you down the aisle for better or worse. Morose? Where did this come from?

Have you ever looked back at your childhood pictures and wondered at how innocent and honest you looked back when you were so much younger? Back when you had no worries about money, career or relationships. A time when things seemed to be much more clearer, much more simpler. That’s what I used to do. I would look at pictures I took in kindergarten or there about and ask myself where did that person go and why was I so different now.

Earlier this month I was at my mother’s house looking for a picture of myself and my father taken when I was small. I wanted to make a copy and do something with it, but I couldn’t find it. Instead I found one taken of myself and my mother. I wasn’t sure where or when it was taken but it was around the same time period as the picture I was looking for, so I made a scan of it.

After I had emailed the picture to myself, I started to look at my younger self and I realized that in this picture, I didn’t look so innocent. In fact I looked like a little bitch that was planning, plotting and scheming about things already. I seemed to be looking for all the ins while keeping in mind where the outs were. There was a deep glower on my face with slits for eyes, although since my father’s mother was half Chinese, I’ll blame her for that. There was an intensity in my look that said; I’m not sure, but happy wasn’t it. Actually apart from the cigarette missing from my right hand, there wasn’t much difference then from how I look now.

Show me the boy at 12 and I’ll give you the man. Mean and morose…uhh maybe.