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.