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

last year i wrote a letter to the ambassador of poland, and he never wrote back

By dusty (January 3, 2009)

I used to delete all spam comments, because: fuck you! But I have had a change of heart. I feel like these people are really interested in reading my musings, really interested in my life, and genuinely serious about suggesting ways for me to achieve that giant skyscraper in my pants that I have always wanted. I am being honest here.

Georgina Sanchez told me: “p2tauhodlitnx2nj”. Would it really be fair to Georgina if I were to delete this? She obviously cares more about me than any other shitbag that reads this blog. Whether sentient or not, Georgina cares about me. I mean, she genuinely cares! She also showed this blog to at least one of her friends (the IP address was nearly identical — they must have been sitting in the school library or computer lab), who also commented! Her friend Lesley Guy (who already seems alarmingly transsexual despite my never having met him/her/it(?)) said this: “ezasv8fwmr1lxia4”. I am not sure exactly what language this is, but I can tell you surely which language it is not, and that is the language of apathy. So with that said, I just wanted to give a big thanks to Georgina and Lesley for commenting, to the big man upstairs for letting this all happen, to my casting director and agent, my director, Jared, who trusted in me even without always trusting me, to my publicist Lisa, my family (most of all my mother), my crew, the many production assistants and interns and stagehands for coming in every day and making sure everything worked, to black people for inventing chicken and waffles as a co-entity, to G.I. Joe’s, Legos, Construx, Mini Micros, Hot Wheels and the early 1990s lineups of the Montreal Expos, Cleveland Indians, Seattle Mariners and Atlanta Braves for giving me such wonderful childhood memories. And last but not least, to all of you who pay your internet bills every month, allowing you endless taken-for-granted opportunities and joy that hunter-gatherer tribes in South America, Indonesia, et al will never see.

Thank you.

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It's like: neanderthals and me, the art of seduction, what are you looking at dicknose?

A VERY CRITICAL UPDATE AND ANNOUNCMENT:

By dusty (August 1, 2008)

I have still not shaved my beard because I am awesome.

And hairy.

Awesomely hairy.

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It's like: neanderthals and me, the art of seduction, this american life

on draft dodging, animal collecting, varicose veins and solving the world’s problems with a small-minded ideology

By dusty (April 21, 2008)

I am growing an amazing beard.

This beard will be the epitome of me when it is finished. This beard will put Jesus’ and Jim Morrison’s to shame. This beard will define me and enshrine me in a world where beards go to live. I will not touch this beard with metal nor will I touch this beard with flame. I will not give up on this beard, as it is a living, breathing thing (and I am not talking about the micro-organisms probably living and breeding in it but rather the metaphysical, metaphorical aspect that effectively renders this beard a sentient being). No, I will grow this beard and then I will grow it more. When people ask me why my beard is so long I will respond simply and coldly with utter disgust.

The idea to grow this beard to such a point of crucial allure has come and gone and come back again and then gone away again several times in years past, but the time just wasn’t right back then.

But it is now.

I am sticking to my original dream this time. I will not give up like I usually do with most things (which is rather easily). There is a fire inside of me — driving me, steering me, has me on cruise control — forcing me to grow this beard. That fire inside of me is probably some sort of murderous beard-eating ball of flames because, really, why would a fire want me to grow a beard. But nevertheless that fire is there. And questionable intentions or not, it has me in its fiery grip. (A grip which no stop, drop or roll is capable of releasing me from.)

So like a lemming to a cliff or a heart to a heart attack, I go blindly towards the light. I grow my beard and ravage the countryside with glimmers of peace and love and a face that resembles a pubic region.

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