Okay, I upheld my end of the bargain. I grew this creepstache all the way through the end of the month. When I started, 30 days ago, I thought growing a moustache was a ridiculously easy way to raise money for prostate cancer research. I mean, seriously. No running.
But, back then, I did not know the meaning of “ridiculous.” I didn’t even know the shadow of its meaning. You see, the root word of “ridiculous” is “ridicule”, and of that I’ve received plenty. Julie truthed that we should call this thing No-Sex-Vember, and laughed and took embarrassing photographs with that blasted iPhone I gave her for her birthday. Her family made up names for my moustache. Names like Larry, Diamond Dave, and Camaro. My kids asked to pet it, then to feed it, then to take it for a walk and enter it in a pageant so they could win some college money.
So yeah, moustaches are humiliating, and learning that was awful.
But I learned something else. I learned that, if you do any humiliating thing for long enough, you’ll be freed of its grip on you. By embracing the moustache in all its creepiness, by looking into becoming a rape whistle retailer, I neutered the moustache’s devastating power. (Yes, it neutered my love life, but whatever. This writing is bad enough already. No sense complicating things.) I mastered the moustache. I became the moustache’s master. Its stachester.
As I ponder post-stache living, I’d like to thank the few people who donated on behalf of me, my team, and our campaign to raise a few bucks for prostate cancer research. We raised $465! Prostate cancer can probably be prevented by dramatically limiting the amount of meat in your diet, but what man is going to do that? So these donations to continued research matter.
And if you’ve been waiting around, thinking that maybe you’d donate but unsure about whether or not I’d earn your donation, well, now’s your time. You can still donate here. Or at any of the other links above, frankly. They all go to the same place.
That is all.