The Downside of Spirit Gum

Our beards have taken over.

The household is still growing their beards, except Adri. He will, though. He will.

It's all for next week's Mustache Party.

I want to cut mine something terrible. Everyday I wake up and find my hand inching toward my Gillette razor. "NO! NO YOU CAN'T!!!" And then I cry over my breakfast. Cheerios drowning in milk and tears.

One more week . . . I feel so ugly . . . one more week . . .

It's all these damn women!! "Let's have a mustache party! Let's wear mustaches!" How can you aspire to grow a mustache? Or buy one? Us men itch, whine, bitch, and moan. Women wear mustaches, parading them around, laughing and hoo-hah-ing in front of us. Do we strap on tampons, going "YAYYY!!! THE BLOOD FLOWS OUT!!! THE BLOOD FLOWS OUT!!!!"??!?!?!?!

NO!!!!

I never asked for this.

This month I've only wanted to listen to folk, to churn butter, to chop wood. To sit by the fire at night, watching embers glow and fly into the chimney. To smoke m' pipe and think about the whispers of my memories passed.

Every morning I feel my face, and every day . . .

. . . it grows . . .

. . . and grows . . .

. . . and grows . . .

. . . and I am changing . . .

A photo of me taken earlier today:

LOOK AT ME!!! LOOK AT ME!!!!

LOOK AWAY!!! . . . look away . . .

Harry McClintock -- "Big Rock Candy Mountain"