I am once again writing you from the comfort of my... whatever it is. Drawer? Hopefully by now you don't think I'm joking. My accommodations for the weekend are somewhere between Harry Potter's cupboard and a Hobbit hole, and I'm sleeping in a drawer bed next to the Sfügsen and/or Bork. With a tasteful curtain for some hint if privacy (although there is plenty of visibility on all sides, so it may he more of an illusion than a semblance). It's actually quite nice if you are only there for a couple of days.

Since I continue to have no real idea of what I'm looking at in a word count (though I'm hoping that my substantial and epic chronicling of events and codifying of reasons why phone blogs are the worst (especially when the DROID spellcheck sees words like "blogs" and "spellcheck" as errors, even though it finds "blog" to be perfectly acceptable) made a sizable dent in the overall count, what with my potential deficit and all), and since my phone keeps trying to add extra words to the ends of perfectly good ones,  we'll just have to soldier on, adventures and all. Because, see, Hobbit hole.

Unfortunately, unlike yesterday when I had substantial notes, sugar, and wine to generate some pretty powerful Novemblog miracles, tonight I have no notes, little sugar, and even less wine to carry me through. Of course, I'm probably (and likely provably, as typos on my phone would have me believe) not the one you need to be worrying about, since I just have to write this shit rather than read it. And tonight, dear reader, may be a more difficult post than most.

When I was in France, I wasn't eating much early on. I was getting paid less than 800 (sorry, eight hundred; seven hundred and ninety-six and some change for those who are really interested and/or overly nosy) euros a month, three hundred and fifty of which went to rent (which wasn't a horrendous deal for what I was getting, aside from the distance from Paris, the small room with a slanted ceiling, the low countertops in the kitchen that consistently hurt my back, and Bev and Elmo's daily shouting matches), with another one hundred and ten going to transportation given how far from the city I was. This left me with seven euros a day for food (and, yes, I know that four hundred and sixty from seven hundred ninety-six leaves three hundred and thirty-six, giving you eleven euros a day for food, but I also needed to pay for a phone and scrounge up funds to get far, far away from Bev whenever possible). Because I was initially living in a hostel without a kitchen, this led to me underspending on food. No, seriously- we got two pastries for breakfast at the hostel, abd I would save one for lunch (while dinner would usually be something frozen or a sandwich from the grocery store acids thr street. That should say "across the." I offer this as further proof that my phone is being just the worst right now.). I would spend as little as possible and eat as little as possible until I finally realized that I was getting so irritable that it was ruining my French experience (although part of that was probably perfectly normal utter rage towards Bev).

Around this time, I noticed that I was losing some hair in the shower. This has always happened, because I'm a hairy fellow. My pelt is legendary, and in the future, Robbie Campbells will be bred to be released and hunted for their pelts. I have accepted this. Even the hair on my head has been incredibly thick. I know this because basically every haircut I get includes the stylist uttering the phrase, "Youmotherfuckers (Author's note: ladies and gentlemen, Rob's phone.) have really thick hair."

This time, though, the hair was.getting a bit thinner on top. I figured it was stress, I stepped up.my food intake a bit, and everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. 

Fast forward to my return to the states. We have to watch some.video of us interviewing patients to get a handle on what we do well and what we do poorly. The assignment makes sense and is one of those mildly important but mostly bullshit assignments that you have to do because they say you have to. I don't know who "they" are- I imagine some sort of cabal of teachers, professors, and textbook writers who assemble to devise new and improved mind-numbingly boring exercises to waste students' time. But, hey, we have to do it, and so it goes.

Well, it goes, except for Rob. Rob spends the first few minutes wondering where this magical incandescent bulb is coming from to cause such a reflection from the top of his head. Then he realizes that he has a large and noticeable bald spot on the back of his head. He spends the rest of the video going through the five stages of grief on fast-forward about twelve times before finally settling on denial.

Two years later, the bald spot continues to expand. And now Rob wonders when he'll have to get that last haircut (probably pretty soon, because his bangs are currently just a couple of pathetic wisps that wander aimlessly across his forehead and refuse to stay put). I had hoped to make it to residency with a reasonably full head of hair.You know, so I could be the sexy doctor in our gang of comical but endearing young doctors (who would oddly get simple medical facts wrong). Unfortunately, it's not looking good; I'll be lucky to nake it to thirty with any hair left on my head (which just makes it sadder that I won't be to residency by then). But you know what?

Fuck you, head follicles. You don't want to hang around? Go, then. Go at your leisure. Here's why.

1.) I'm too much of a man for you. This isn't alopecia or generalized hair loss. My legs, my chest, my arms, my feet (probably why I'm in this Hobbit hole), my face, and, Lord help me, my back are all standing by my (literally) hairy ass and going strong. What, you can't handle a little bit of dihydotestosterone? You can either man up (but in a gender neutral and not a cis-heteronormative sort of way) or get the fuck out.

2.) You fuck up my work. Okay, fine. This is partly on me. I have to work in a lab. This means I need to work with cells in cell culture hoods (or biosafety cabinets, if you're into what may be proper technical terminology). Lately, though, every time I'm in there, those little wisps of hair are getting all over my forehead, my eyes, and my nose. Normally, I can just move those with my hands, but when I'm staying sterile, that just isn't a viable option. Plus, you get all up ahainst the hood and cause a weirdblack sort of itching of which I do not approve.

3.) Hats. I've tried wearing hats before. Baseball caps, wool knit hats, and probably at least another few types. And every time I try, you motherfuckers decide to go absolutely bonkers. I take the hat off, and you're all strewn about in a manner that does not remotely resemble the carefully coiffed locks with which I left the house. Even a baseball cap makes you go all swoopy (which you try to do anyway once you're long enough), and those are becoming a necessity with the extra sun exposure your flight from my head is leading to. I've finally resorted to my hoodie, but you have forced me away from hats for too long. Once you're out of the picture, I can warm my head in peace without fear of hairy reprisal.

4. Distinguishment. Possibly not a word, but neither is athleticism, really. Case in point: what do Patrick Stewart, Jason Statham, and William Shakespeare all have in common?

Okay, aside from being British. Okay, aside from having acted professionally. No, aside from being pretty recognizable to most people and having a bawdy body of work.

They're all bald. Or at least balding. They're also masters of the fine art of distinguishment, which I just made up and will be publishing a self-help book of the same title at some time, at which point I will deny this paragraph and the notion that I would make up the idea of distinguishment. It's really deep within our hearts, and if we want it enough, we, too, can elevate ourselves to such a mastery of distinguishment. But only if you want it enough.

But more importantly, these masters of distinguishment are all very, very bald. Patrick Stewart tells a wonderful story of his toupee (or as I like to call them, Roadkill Abomination from the Very Depths of Poor Taste, Depravity, And Gauche Accessories) being ripped from his head by a large Eastern European fellow. Does being bald make you distinguished? I can't say for certain, but the evidence is there. It can't be worse than 12 year old Rob who appears after a good shave. He tends to want to talk about his favorite Pokémon (Blastoise, obviously) and whine about girls on his Myspace or whatever.

And I know what you're thinking: "Wow, Rob, your ever growing levels of distinguishment are truly.convincing. I'm going to go home and break out the straight razor and kick these God forsaken locks to the curb. I'm not just going to cut my hair- I'm going to cut all of them." And then we'll pause awkwardly as we wait for the clearly epic music that would follow that.

But you'd be wrong. See, not everyone has the naturally distinguished scalp of a balding twenty-five year old. No, these are.matters best left to God and biology rather than your unsteady hands. I mean, really. Take a freaking beta blocker. Are you making invisible Jiffy Pop? Calm that hand down before you hurt someone.

Finally, some of you might be wondering why I haven't shaved of my remaining hair or why I haven't gotten a haircut in months or why I gather all my loose hairs in a small plastic bag and try to force them back into my scalp. Well, the answer to that question is simple.

My head looks weird. Duh.