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Literary lobotomy

To be-ard or not to be-ard

To be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s a weird feeling when the abstract combines with the concrete, and fact becomes fiction: I’m an idiot. It pains me to say it, but it’s true. I’m dumb.

It’s not my fault exactly. Some may blame it on the fact that I was three months premature. “Oh dear,” they’d exclaim with what I am sure is ingenuous sincerity, “that must of been a terrible burden. You must have terrible memories about it.”

“I was a baby,” I reply.

“Yes but your parent’s – they must have been shell-shocked with fear.”

“Ask my parents.”

“Aren’t you cheeky? Well, you definitely have made up for the lack of lip as a baby.” They throw back at me cheerily, almost insultingly.

“And you, the asshole where your face should be.”

Of course, though, such conversations never happen. My replies are much less exciting and snappy. They usually consist of me nodding, basking in the sympathy when I can get it. I feel all people should do this though: fish for compliments; because it’s not every day they get a rod.

That aside, my stupidity does not stem from my prematurity. Quite oppositedly, in fact. I am stupid because I am mature. It’s not because of any developmental burden, general inarticulacy, or even a lack of reading and knowledge. It is because I have become a man, and a man’s supposed to have facial hair.

Therein lies the rub (or maybe I’m just rubbing a bare chin): my face is like a prepubescent teenager who shouts in praises when a hair sprouts on my face as if it were the second coming of Jesus. With each follicle that barely falls upon my face, I feel an eruption of man-ness swim over me. Safe to say, it doesn’t happen often because, well, I can’t swim.

But let’s not go down that track. My ineptness is already paramount enough. Instead, let’s stare deep into my shiny 19-year-old face like a mystic’s orb, and tell my future, hairless and all.

Before this though, let’s face it: all great men had some wicked bird’s nests on their faces. I mean, it would be a much more daunting task to think of a person who does not have some remnant of facial hair and is also great. For Christ sakes, Jesus was only considered divine because his hippie beard was nothing short of magical. God too. Even Darwin thought a beard would increase his naturally selected fitness. Survival of the fittest? Survival of the beardest was what he meant to write.

We should not forget our mustachio-ed mustangs. Einstein, Nietzsche, Hulk Hogan … the list is long and unforgettable. Villains even have mustaches. Look at Hitler, Stalin, or any child pedophile. That’s what makes both the hero and the villain: facial hair. It causes the super-human intelligence, dastardly plans, and world domination whether through evil or good. Also pedophilia.

To close the case, Chuck Norris has a mustache.

Shuffling aside for fear of round-house kicks, my facial hair, and the lack thereof is what makes me stupid. You couldn’t even cut the hair of my chinny-chin-chin; not that’d I’d ever have the acumen to build a straw, wood, or brick house. To be frank, my sickness (lackofhair-itius) makes it impossible to build houses at all, among many other seriously strenuous conditions. It’s horrible.

In short, it’s a hairy situation.

About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters. Follow my wordpress or my IG (@_kenkan)

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