Politics

The Diary of Rick Scott's Hair

Page 3 of 3

2000, Stamford, Connecticut

I am disappearing. This -- my own mortality -- I've grown to accept. The forehead has been steadily advancing for some time now, crawling closer each week like an evil white blanket on its way to tuck me in for eternity. If there is any love left in this world, I've haven't seen it in some time.

Rick's in deep with the government these days. Medicare fraud or something like that. His mouth gets farther each day, but I can still hear what's going on. Sometimes, though, I wish I couldn't.

I'll keep this short. My energy is dwindling.

Now I'm lucky if I get a single dab of whatever off-brand baby shampoo Ann has the maid pick up. Yesterday I caught a glimpse of the hair dryer and couldn't help but think how sweet it would be to flick that puppy up to high, and let it sear me away. Then I could just float off in the wind. Maybe it would carry me back to better times.

2011, Tallahassee, Florida

I see it now. Death, that is. The cycle of life is cruel, but it does not discriminate. We all face it at one point or another.

Sometimes, when it all gets to be too much, I'll think back to that day in 1970. I'll think about Annette caressing me as we swayed back and forth in the middle of the gym, the disco ball spinning, lighting up her eyes every so often. I think about it. Back then, before that darkness took over, when all we had was each other -- and we didn't want it any other way. It's nice to think about. But the memory is slipping.

I am cold now. I am so very cold.

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Ryan Pfeffer is Miami New Times’ music editor. After earning a BS in editing, writing, and media from Florida State University, Ryan joined the New Times staff in November 2013 as a web editor, where he coined the phrase "pee-tweet" (to retweet someone while urinating). Born and raised in Fort Lauderdale, he’s now neck-deep in bass and booty in the 305.
Contact: Ryan Pfeffer