It's been a rough few months. First, your dog died. Then, your wife left you. After a while, your kids stopped talking to
you. Well, they're babies, so they
weren't talking to you in the first place, but they sort of just stopped
acknowledging your presence in a more general sense. Most recently, you lost your apartment and
had to move in at a local homeless shelter.
So you can't really be blamed for not shaving.
But your social worker did right by you and found you a job
interview, so it's time for you to stop lollygagging and start
lolly-opposite-of-gagging, and damned if you don't know it: today you're going
to pull yourself up by your bootstraps and shave.
It'll be an epic process.
You won't have shaved since Scribbers died, so you'll need to hack
through layers of beard before you finally reach the sub-beard level that is
razor appropriate. By the time you're
done you'll have ruined a pair of scissors and dulled three disposable razor
blades, but your shorn face will glisten in the mirror of your communal
bathroom. The sink below you will look
like someone's nightmare, wherein a collection of hamsters turned themselves
inside out after eating a pile of human hair, but your face will be straight up
gorgeous.
Tomorrow, when you walk into your job interview, the woman
meeting you will immediately bite her lip.
"Hi," she'll moan into her hand.
"Hello," you'll tell her, sliding your resume over
to her.
What ensued will be a combination job interview/porn plot
line. When you're done, you'll have the
job, so long as you stay shorn, and sexually service your new boss on a
bi-daily basis.
"If you slip up, I'll fuck you in the ass. Then fire you," she'll announce to you
atop a pile of W2s and clothing.
You'll nod, thank her politely, and ask if you could crash
at her place for a while. She'll
politely decline.
"I don't mix my work life and my home life,"
she'll murmur, pointing to the ring around the fourth finger of her left hand.
Congratulations on Shaving Your Face!
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