Mustache Diaries

Day 1.

The covering is a light fuzz, similar to a newly Brazilian waxed chick, or small fruit from the okanagan. Light breezes ruffle the beginnings of my mustache like the sweet caress of an escort; calming yet irresponsible. The hair is lightly colored, soft and useless. Only time will tell whether or not this humble beginning will result in a mustache to conquer the world of facial hair.

Day 2.

Progress has been made. The general outline is Stalin like, and I am in fact highly motivated to force millions of russians to move to siberia and eat polar bears and each other. The urge is becoming quite strong, and I often have to tie myself to my futon to quench my murderous bloodlust for the russian people. Only time will tell whether or not this misplaced rage for the russian people of the late 40's will abate or subside with time.

Day 3.

The darker hairs have started coming in. My mustache has progressed from a light frosting to a medium gravy covered mess, dark and brooding yet uneven and chunky, like Robert Deniro. I trimmed it lightly with a pair of small scissors, and came close to literally blowing a load in my pants. Grooming the start of a mustache is much more fulfilling than killing russians, and I may consider this personal hygiene activity an alternative to genocide. Only time will tell whether or not mustache trimming will truly replace my building desire to enslave the russian people to do my bidding.

Day 4.

I have, for the first time, had to flick rice from the mustache. Unfortunately, the general shape of the french mustache is emerging. Untidy and prone to surrender, this mustache will soon throw the reigns of nazi oppression off it's cheese-laden shoulders and bear the full burden of it's cultural significance. Never before has a mustache looked so dirty, yet so simultaneously beautiful. For several brief moments I considered shaving off this monstrosity, but alas, the mustache prevailed. It's almost as if the hairs have developed primitive intelligence, like the vines in Jumanji. Slowly they will start developing red flowers to shoot poisonous darts at my enemies, and later, my house will be flooded and a black cop's car will become invaded by monkeys until Robin Williams fights a lion and completes the last good performance of his career. Only time will tell whether or not Robin Williams can salvage his career.

Day 5.

FUCK THIS BULLSHIT, FUCK THIS MUSTACHE, I'M SHAVING THIS FUCKING SHITRAG OFF

Day 6.

A small gust of wind tickles the mustache hairs as the mind control drugs secreted by the hairs slowly leach into my brain, motivating me to enslave and destroy the russian people once and for all. I will create a dream society where supply and demand vanish and the common man is hunted for sport when he refuses to help his neighbors. TOD NACH RUSSLAND, Rußland, zerstöre ich Sie!