Coloring

I thought winter. Richard says autumn. Bruce suggested winter, and then, when supplied with more info, autumn. One website insisted that I was a summer. Others have told me everything but spring, so we've safely ruled that out. I think.

Take pity on me. Dress me up. What the hell season am I?

PS. Skye, don't my shoulders look slender?

PPS. Dave Cobb, if you turn me into a Nik Kershaw video, I'll wound you.

And then, for variety, I complain about having my picture taken

Richard is resolute in his certainty that he's going to take the perfect photograph of me. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, he thinks he is the Chosen One of taking my picture. He carries a Kodak Fun Saver with him everywhere. His perfect moment will not elude him.

He has taken horrible photos of me. He has taken nightmare photos of me. This does not stop him. Perhaps it has more to do with extortion than memory.

John gave it up years ago, along with everyone else whose bodies contain actual souls. He, like Bruce, gets it. Some people do not photograph well. I am their emperor. John understands that, when I whine about cameras, it's not attention-getting subterfuge. I'm not after coddling, or cajoling, or reassurance that I look just fine. And the very last thing I want is for someone to decide that he's going to "cure" me of my "phobia" by cornering me at a bear event and devoting half a roll to capturing me at my shiniest and most overwhelmed. What I'm after is to not be photographed. I'm fine. Really. No, I'm not into my looks. John is. I'm into his. It's great. Don't take my fucking picture. It always comes out way, way worse than I actually look, and that's what bothers me.

John is fascinated by this, of course. "They're your features. It's definitely you. But it doesn't look anything like you."

I don't know for sure what's going on. Technically, yes, they are the same waves of light that bounce off of me. But while photons quarrel and shove each other to be the ones to bounce off of John, who they love, for example, there is something about bouncing off of me that makes them resentful and vindictive, and they all gather together in the camera and bitch about the experience to the CCD chip, which is sympathetic to their pain. The chip, in turn, delights everyone involved with a vengeful manipulation of the image, making me look both headachey and punched. The photons clap their happy little particulate hands, and sign each others' yearbooks to commemorate the victory, and I'm left wondering, do I really smile like that? I look like I clocked myself with the door at UgliMart.

Below is the proof. We took dozens of similar photos. In them, I am trying to smile. I am trying to look normal. I'm trying not to look like I'm flinching from a stick. I am trying to forget what I know is inevitable. The pictures will come out shite.

Sure enough, when we looked at them, John said, "Oh sweetie, sweetie, you are far cuter than that."

In my defense, Mr. Sun was trying to kill me. That's why I'm all squints. I have no idea what's going on with my mouth.