El Beardo,

Some of you may have noticed my once pure, shaven face becoming littered with scattered patterns of stringiness.

That's what the pre-adolescents call a beard.

Let me just say I'm glad I'm not a viking. I would be the last viking chosen for Vikingball every single time.

The Gods of Facial Hair did not bless me unfortunately. At it's present state, sparse and lacking, it's about the best I can get. It's been a few weeks now, I can't imagine it getting much thicker than this. I mean, I'll never be like...Al Qaida status-beard. And I'm certainly no wop, who's facial hair begins to show as soon as the blade leaves the skin's surface. I'm like the Tobey Maguire of facial hair.

Why have I elected to grow such a pubescent patch of dirt on my face? Well, first and foremost, I dropped the razor on my electric shaver down the drain. I wasn't high during this one, so sober-me reacted with words like: "fuck-a-doodle doo," "S of a B!" and "Life - you fucked me." On top of this, I can't fucking find a replacement blade for this POS anywhere. People have been complimenting me, and the Leafs actually won a game. So why would I shave if the Leafs are going to go on a massive playoff run?

Therefore, I can safely assume that Life and the forces that be just don't want me to be clean shaven. I can't fight destiny. I guess I'm just going to have to be hairy.