I know that I’m going to see the sky light up like this, someday. I wonder when and where that will be, if it will live up to my expectations, what I will be like, and who will be with me when I do. (I hope it’s Joanna Lumley.)

My roommate to be is a dead ringer for Carol Brady.

Hoo am I?

I most wanted to try the Thatchers, but they were out of home try-on stock. They sent me Roosevelts instead. I may just go to the showroom to make up my mind, because I’m told they have them there.

Of these, I’m split between Miles and Huxley. Leaning toward Huxley for their Clark Kentish qualities.

Her: How do they make you feel when you put them on?
 Me: It’s not how I feel when I put them on, exactly, but how I feel when I whip them off.

My Warby Parker home try-on kit is supposed to (finally!) arrive today. It feels like this.

The experience was mostly less painful than I thought it would be, with the few painful bits being more painful than I could have possibly imagined. We’re talking about searing white-hot pain. Who knew my sternum was so sensitive?! (The other parts that really hurt were my eyebrows, nostrils—yes, nostrils—and the upper pube region.)

What I was expecting to be a hilarious and awkward experience was less awkward in actuality. In my imagination, I watched myself going through this process as though I were a third party observer. In fact, I spent most of the time staring at the ceiling trying to ignore what was happening and remembering to breath so every rip of the wax would be a surprise. Putting myself in that situation, and the memories of it, will amuse me for a lifetime.

Most of the initial redness died down by the end of the day but was replaced this morning with delightful pimply waxing bumps. Just on my chest, mostly. I was sold a product which may help with that, and although it’s one more thing to add to my morning routine, I have so much less that needs shampooing that I think I’m going to save a bundle of both time and money.

Drying off after a shower is also now easier. I can accomplish this with a 14”x14” auto shammy. I got a package of six for $6 at Walgreens. I figure they’re easier to keep clean and dry than the one towel I’ve been using and reusing.

Here, internet. Have another two of those slutty bad MySpacey iPhone pictures taken in bathroom mirrors which, I’m told, will someday prevent me from landing That Big Job or running for office because The Man will question my judgment.

(Even though The Man has been caught doing far worse in bathrooms.)

One of the necessary skills one must cultivate when staying on a friend’s couch—particularly if your friend has many roommates on different schedules—is to limit your time spent in the bathroom. I never have been much of a primper, but my skin requires a lot of care to control breakouts, and I feel guilty enough about the two quick showers per day. During the last ten weeks I’ve had no time to commune with Mr. Bubble, I’ve been shaving my face only once or twice per week, and I’ve been clipping my toenails at work on my lunch break. As far as systems go, this has mostly worked well.

Except for one thing…the grooming of excess body fur. ‘Manscaping’ if you will. I’m not sure exactly why, but I really don’t feel comfortable going into someone else’s bathroom and spending a conspicuous hour or so shaving, trimming (loudly, electrically, trimming), and plucking all the fur I ordinarily shave, trim, and pluck in order to feel like a properly groomed modern boy.

So, um, a couple weeks ago, I booked myself for a thorough waxing.

The urgency is really the eyebrows: they’re on a collision course to become some sort of Bert-like muppetbrow and need a professional to properly separate them once more. But there’s also the boyparts region which needs to be tamed so the fur stops creeping above the waistband of my admittedly low rise jeans and becoming entwined with my belt.

Waxing is a pretty extreme departure from my usual routine, but you only live once, and lately I’ve become an extreme boy. Fine. But here was my conundrum: if I’m going to wax there, what the hell do I do with my tummy fur? Mind you, I’m extremely fond of my tummy fur. I regard it as the source of my power. But I can’t have a furry tummy and furry legs imposed upon by their adjacency to what will be my scandalously waxed junk. So I bit the bullet. Everything from neck to scrot has to go. 

About one hour from now.

Why not, right? It’ll be an experience! It’s just hair! It’ll probably grow back! Maybe I can donate to Locks of Love.

I just realized, this is going to hurt. Which will be kind of funny, but mostly painful. Yelp tells me there will be bourbon. It better not be a fucking lie.

What bullshit.

hipsterpuppies:

petey probably should have washed out his altoid case before snorting coke from it

[via monica g]

Yeah, petey. I feel ya.