I have no shaving cream. That’s not a
real surprise. I only have razors because a guy named Neils gave some to me. I’ve been using
shampoo, soap, and nothing at all as shaving cream and let me tell
you I can’t recommend any of it. Somewhere, there’s supposed to be a
hygiene place where I can get deodorant (I’m running out) and
shaving cream, but the only person I’ve heard about this mythical
place from is my roommate Larry, who is intensely incapable of giving
instructions.
Now, in my personal life, there are
three things I generally despise: cities, effeminate gay men; and
having other people give me directions while I drive. There was one
date where I had all three, but let me tell you, I finally found a
living human organism worse at giving directions than gay men.
Larry my roommate is the worst. He
doesn’t know east from north, favoring a system of navigation where
everything is “up” some number of blocks. Facing is a quaint
idea. “That building with the windows” is a landmark. He
backtracks to an unknown point in his directions without warning or
anything but a quickly repeated “nonono” before he says the next
direction with enough emphasis that he thinks you can’t help but
now which exact part of the rambling, incoherent set of random
descriptions you just went back to.
For now, I’m just going to have to
continue this near-dry shaving.
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