My moustache is bugging the hell out of me. I hate having a moustache and a beard but the trouble is, I seem to look better with them. Even my own brother said it lends me an air "of gravitas".
Fuck gravitas. These stupid fucking hairs everywhere . . . it's like a cockroach on my lip. Ohh, the angst . . . the duelling devils . . . do I keep it? Do I ditch it? Ahh, fuckit. My face will decide.
Word of the day: "Apotheosis". I have no idea what the fuck that means. But it sounds good! "The meal at Milos was the apotheosis of my career as a food whore." Doesn't that sound good? But I know it's not right. I think I mean "apex", but doesn't "apotheosis" sound so much more majestic?
It's snowy outside. I know that somewhere in this equation lies trouble, but there's fuck all I can do about it. Except hide. Should I hide? There are consequences for that, too . . . namely, clean, silky sheets, a piece of toasted country bread with garlic butter, sliced cherry tomatoes, gruyère, black forest ham and a fried egg on top . . . oh, there are consequences. Maybe I should hide . . .
But if I go out . . . ohh, the humanity! Hmm, wonder if Metro is open.
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