Ockham would not be proud

You’d think having been shaving for a couple of years now that I would have gotten used to the idea of running a few knives over my face in unison without inflicting any damage on my consequently impeccably smooth face. Well, you’d be wrong, because I cut myself doing it almost every time, maybe I should just grow the hairs out and get it over with, sure I can’t grow my stubble enough to create a hobo beard but I can just look lazy, and that’s certainly how I seem to come across most of the time despite all the writing I do in an attempt to hone my creative muscles. (I think they’re situated somewhere between the pectoral and abdominal muscles but don’t quote me on that, I’m no expert on anatomy.)

I mean, if I were to begin the field, the human skeleton would probably look something like this.

But after a couple of years of trying it seems that though I can now remove pretty much all of the pathetic excuses for hairs that sliver parasitically through the pores of my skin and onto my undeserving face, I still can’t do it without starting to daydream or swiping down too hard, or something else that always seems to end up with me catching my lip on the razor.

Now, this problem could be easily solved with a few hundred thousand pounds to remove all of the pathetic excuses for hairs surrounding my lips. However, that isn’t likely to occur any time soon and I wouldn’t want to prevent myself from ever being able to grow a goatee, much less the Alan Moore beard I have planned for my senior years to scare the shit out of my potential grandchildren.

Another solution is to just pay more attention, but if any of you have paid attention to my blogs during the almost year I’ve been doing them every day, you’d know very well that I’m not too keen on staying on one subject, however mucb I succeeded today.


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