Wearing A Beard And A Scowl

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Dear Diary,

I find it odd my beard is attracting so much attention. Well… No. No I don’t; I just had no better way of making my beard the subject of this entry. I do however tend to elicit similar comments wherever I go though, sadly my people aren’t very original.

“Are you Osama Bin Laden?”

“Taliban!”

“You took your afro and put it under your chin!”

And banality upon banality, ad nauseam. My goodness. But I am feeling nice today, so I will answer the most common question of why. So in case you wondered why someone would keep a beard, here you go:

1. People will not cross you in a waakye line. As a matter of fact, you might be pushed to the front of the line. People also give you room to walk in a crowded street, hawkers and street peddlers call you ‘wɔfa’ (means ‘uncle’), and trɔtrɔ drivers’ apprentices don’t pretend like they forgot they owe you 20 pesewas (about $0.10). You generally want this to happen.

2. I’m about 5″9′, 160 pounds (73kg) and I’m a CS major. What this means: I’m about as intimidating as a feather duster. But throw a beard and a scowl in there, and drive a pickup truck and presto: instant badassification. Random people will even greet you in traffic. It is mind blasting.

3. It may not make you popular with today’s woman, true, but it will make you popular with the guys. And everyone wants street cred, yes? Yes?

4. 

Enough Said.

 

Pleased,

Cheese.

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Quote: Who Cheers Up The Comedian?

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https://i2.wp.com/themoviebanter.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/rorschach.jpg“I heard a joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he’s depressed. Says life is harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world. Doctor says, “Treatment is simple. The great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go see him. That should pick you up.” Man bursts into tears. Says, “But doctor… I am Pagliacci.” Good joke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains.”

 

— Rorschach, Watchmen

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“He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others–the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.”

—  Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

Ammonia Man

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Dear Diary,

At exactly 9:46pm last night, I watched my smartphone fall roly-poly, pell-mell, tumble-bumble into my toilet bowl. My first reaction was quick (GRAB IT NOW), but thankfully, my second reaction, quicker:

My phone was suspended in the toilet bowl then full of my roommate’s urine. At the back of my mind, I acknowledged that at some point I needed to pull it out. Five seconds had gone by. I was still grossed out. Then 20 seconds. Then I figured;

What the hell. That’s a lot of money in the toilet, and, by Krum I’m not letting that go!

In I plunged, quickly laying hand on my cellular device and salvaging it promptly. The remainder of the evening was a flurry of disinfecting and drying stuff in an attempt to breathe life back into my dear phone. I was just about done when I reached into my closet to pick out some cotton swabs to get the disinfectant applied to small places I couldn’t reach with my fingers, but I mistakenly hit down something else. Something made of rubber. Something that comes as a pair. Something, you see, called gloves.

For those who spend their lives online like me, here is the appropriate meme: fmr

 

Sighing,

Cheese.

 

In Payment of a Debt

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Dear Diary,

It has been a while since I actually wrote a post; pray, bear me no animus. I have an interes… well, maybe it isn’t interesting, but I sure as herpes got a kick out of it!

I needed to turn off my freezer because my roommate and I couldn’t pry out our frozen meat as it was completely stuck in ice. We did this.

The freezer was off for so long and we kind of forgot about it since we each had a lot of other things to take care of. Like breakfast. We did this.

Unfortunately for us, all the water and meat juices seeped onto our floor. My closet door being close had absorbed a boatload of the bloody water, but, more importantly, the smell. Oh dear Lord, that awful smell… Sigh. We did this.

So my roommate suggested something wise. “We could unhinge the door, set it out in the sun to dry so that the smell goes away.” I looked at him. I blinked. I blinked again.

I did this:

 

 

This was a good day.

Me gusta,

Cheese.

 

PS. “sure as herpes” is not an accepted idiom, nor is it a particularly wise/sensible one. I strongly advise against its use.

HDR Like A Boss

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I’m no Trey Ratcliff, but here is my attempt at HDR!