I recently came across an old draft for a post entitled, “Sorry I haven’t updated in a while.” It was blank and I never got around to posting it. The irony of this does not escape me.
This thing is terrifying. I can’t even take a halfway flattering picture with it. Smiling… Half-smiling… Deadpan… Thoughtful… There’s simply no positive light one can cast upon oneself that outweighs the total doucheness prerequisite in wearing one of THESE on one’s stupid, unbearable face.
It’s like having an alien parasite stuck to your lip. It’s breathing in your life force and draining your soul but if you rip it off you’ll die. YOU’LL FREAKING DIE!
Right now I can live with it, but I have work on Wednesday and if this thing isn’t gone by then I’m in trouble. Work is less than a block away from a popular gay club, and I already get hit on more than I’d like (which is to say, at all). This creature on my face would raise a flag — there’s an L in that word, flag — to every gay guy in the area. Worse than a rainbow scarf, worse than an earring in the wrong ear, worse than a tattoo on my forehead that reads “I suck dick”, worse than a white pair of pants, it would say, “hey everyone, come hit on bald Freddie Mercury!” I could deepen my voice and harangue my would-be lovers about my current (imaginary) girlfriend and no one would be fooled. It would be open season.
And it’s not that I’m homophobic. I was once hit on by a girl, and that sucked too. But women tend to flirt, and that I can take. Men are more aggressive, and the only kind of men that would hit on me, a man, would be the gay kind.
And, well, getting hit on at work sucks. You can’t escape. You just have to smile politely and wait for them to leave. It’s flattering but awkward. Is this how women feel when I hit on them? (If I ever hit on them, I mean.) No. It can’t be. I’d have to hit on them while I was wearing this retarded mustache. Then they would know how it feels.
Dear God, the interblog says Wednesday is “Gay Punk Rock Tiki Night”. I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound promising.
Right now my only defense is a profound sense of irony. Something that says, “Yeah, I look ridiculous, but that’s funny. This mustache is funny.” I could maybe wear a member’s only jacket and blast Journey out of my headphones.
…No, that makes me sound even more gay.
Right now I have a mustache. On Wednesday I will not.
For a graphic design class, I whipped up a published version of this silly novel I’m writing. It centers around a maniacal body-builder slash hard-nosed detective who has to learn to “play by the rules” to get along with his new partner, a paper-pushing adult female mountain lion.
It’s a comedy.