How I Spend My Friday Nights

So, last Friday night we had a girls night

like we do EVERY Friday night. . . 

The Friday night before that

I told my friends that I thought it would be fun to go the the library and read some ancient political philosophy. . .  

I thought it would be fun  [and still think so : )]

The Friday night before that

I went to a middle schoolers' dance party to ride on the water slides and got rained out of the outdoor party 

after realizing that the 13 year old girls in attendance were all better at doing there hair and make-up, finding cuter clothes, flirting with boys, and even in their pubescent state, would be infinitely more likely to make it onto the front cover of Seventeen magazine in a bikini than myself

That's why I'm still single.

The mustachioed menace

Something about a man with facial hair really gets me going... I'd like to think that maybe it's my way of rebelling against the prepubescent man-boy male stereotype I so fondly remember lusting after in the 90s.

MMMMMM... That's some kind of man.

  

The problem isn't finding a man with something growing on his face, because heaven knows there's a surplus of guys with chin straps (or as I like to call them "Douche Stripes"). Or guys with a soul patch... which should really be called the sole patch instead (because, really, who wants to date someone with hair that looks like nesting hamster babies.) 

My problem is finding a man that with accept my facial hair in all of its glory. Ok, my mustache might be a stick on, but I've grown accustomed to it. Nothing brightens up a day like a a french pencil line, or a Clark Gable. 

Pictured: "The Gentleman Caller" 

The way I see it, men should just be glad that it's not a real one, meaning I wax even though the hairs are blond. I hate to have my chin whiskers glistening in the sunlight.

True story, bleaching isn't invisibility cream.

My love of all things mustache is part of what makes me... me. And I'm pretty sure its darn sexy, well, at least not Quasimodo-esq.