My Particularly Shit Moustache has been singing ‘Don’t Cry
For Me Argentina’ a lot recently—probably on account of It recently proclaiming
some kind of Argentinian heritage. And yesterday, when I wasn’t really paying
much attention, It tried to saddle a duck and migrate to its apparent South
American homeland.
Señor
bye! my Particularly Shit Moustache cried before cruelly finding out that
the mallard was not big enough to support my weight also on this adventure. It
failed to see that I am actually a necessary component of Its being: we cannot
be separated without my Particularly Shit Moustache losing all Its identity
and, at best, threadbare substance. My upper lip can be Its only home.
Still, it whipped and whipped the
poor duck, attempting to get the creature to soar, but it was all to no avail. It
wept: pensé patos vuelan juntos.
The Seeing
had unfortunately given my Particularly Shit Moustache a misplaced confidence,
as if It actually had autonomy distinct from me. But, as I gently reminded It,
most people still cannot see It without prompting. The only person who really
cares about my Particularly Shit Moustache—who feels it slightly itch in
slightly humid weather, who examines it in the mirror, who pets it gently in
moments of mild thought—is me.
I create It
and make It live.
My
Particularly Shit Moustache didn’t take this well. We’re not on great terms at
the moment.
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