Next Saturday I’ll be on the way to South Carolina for a week of somehow even fewer obligations than my meager existence already entails. So for this final few days I’ll be dressing up in bro tanks and swimsuits in preparation for a week of bro tanks and swimsuits.
GPOY: Got a New Cardigan and You People Only Seem to Respond to Selfies Now, So Choke On Some Model Shots Edition.
GPOY: Hello, I’m Dead Edition
GPOY: New Hair, Don’t Care (except I actually do care and crave an unending stream of positive reinforcement lest the cracked walls of my self-esteem cave in on themselves) Edition
GPOY: I Went to Selfie City and All I Got Was This Stupid Fucking Photo of My Goddamned Face Edition
So this beard: keep, shape, or eradicate from the face of the…my face, I guess? I was going to say Earth, but you know.
Anyway, I have no idea what to do with it.
It’s this blog’s tradition to post a still life (with coffee) selfie on the first of every year. Only, this year I forgot. So here’s that, a couple days late and featuring 100% more bedhead and budding lumberjack beard than years prior.
'Nice game face, son. Are you an Under Armor model?'
'Nah, I don't have the proper attire. Those guys are always wearing compression tops and stuff.'
'Well, merry Christmas, sport!'
'Hey, all right! Am I a model now?'
'Make the face again.'
'Ugh…Let us get back to you.'
'Takin' selfies, huh?' 'No, go away.' 'Bullshit, you totally are. Take one with me.' 'No.' 'Come ooooon.’ ’Fine. Get up here.’ 'Look, we're Pietà.’ 'Not quite, pup.'