Mustache

I grew a mustache yesterday.

It is fun to stroke, and I think Arachnid thinks it’s pretty fancy. Or thinks I may be a man. Either one has its perks. When I look in the mirror, I fashionably twirl up my under nose hairs, like the Pringles man. He is one of my role models, with that amazing facial hair of his, twirling with no end.

The funny thing is that I have never grown such hair before, and am already a pro. Perhaps I ate too many Pringles, or am turning into a giant tarantula.

Am I the next Spooderman?

Taking care of a mustache is almost as easy as taking care of a cactus without the poky things. It is just a patch of hair, gray and messy just like the hairs on my head. Plus I don’t have to do my makeup since everyone thinks I’m a boy now.

Yesterday, I went inside the bathroom and a lady with a pink shirt and a mini human screamed. I looked inside the mini human’s lumpy underwear, checking if she had any problems. The pink lady gazed on in horror, until eventually taking her mini human away. She thought I was a man. Surely, no one would scream for a mishap in manners, right? Also, I put a pun in the last sentence. I was bathing my mustache.

Today, I am going to set my mustache free! So for the remembrance of my manly and beautiful mustache, I am making this blog post.

So I release it from its terra cotta pot and watch as it flies far away. I hope it reaches a proper owner.

Soon, I hear Arachnid yelling curses next door.

It seems as if my attachment to Arachnid has been passed on to my facial hair in a rather literal way.

 

 

 

 

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