Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Self Improvement: Stubble

Each morning I am repulsed by those black and wiry specters which nightly rise from my face. There is no more keen a flavor as the scraping of a fresh razor against my cheek. Reaping the obscene field whose useless chaff I flick, hatefully, into the toilet. What glee, to then turn the razor upside down, and shear up now, against the grain, artfully slicing and pulling at those hairs too deeply rooted in their oiled shafts to feel the bite of the first pass. Finally, the controlled sting of scented lotions to the whistling barren of my now smooth jaws...

Henceforth, however, I will resist shaving on Sundays.

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