It's like: ferocious and atrocious, neanderthals and me, this american life

there is a pedophiliac hungrily staring at me as i write this

By dusty (January 5, 2009)

I shaved my beard.

This must be what it’s like to give birth, to bring new life into this world, to push a 7-pound mass of fluid-smeared organs-and-bones encased by a fragile skeletal shell through a vaginal canal roughly six times too small.

It’s a strange feeling, giving birth. My beard has been a part of me for over nine months — a large part of me. I have taken care of it, felt it kick, stroked it, cleaned it after eating, flat-ironed it when it looked ugly, took pictures of it, showed it to my friends, showed it to my mom, put it in pretend ponytails. But now I feel lost, feel without purpose.

True, I now have this amazing 70s porn-stache & almost-connected-to-it Chops™ that bring vintage John Lennon or Andy Kaufman to mind. True, I feel more powerful than Superman, walking around looking this awesome — this retro. And true also that if I owned a ’79 Firebird Trans-Am with a T-Top and a giant-fucking-Firebird-logo on the hood I could go full-circle and probably explode with irony. But, I will never forget that beard, never forget what it felt like those nine long months — those strange hunger cravings, inexplainable mood swings, the kicking, the doctor’s appointments, the clothes shopping, the picking-of-names, the daily progress pictures, the unfounded worries of miscarriage when I found blood in my stool that one time.

But life goes on. And unlike Corky, I still look fucking awesome.

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