Swan Song of the Survivor Beard...

For a little over 5 months now, I have been sporting what some call a 'freedom beard'. It has been described by some as 'epic', others as 'wow, that's...wow', and still others as 'good God, how are you able to get food past it?!'. Honestly, I had no agenda for how long I would grow it, so the shaving part seems like it should be similarly arbitrary. I call it the Survivor Beard because I began growing it in the hospital last year where I survived a rather nasty bout of food poisoning. I have always hoped that someone would describe it as 'prodigious' before it fell victim to my many shaving devices. I suppose some wishes are better left unfulfilled. I wouldn't want it to go to my head. Get it? Sorry for that.

Tomorrow I meet a friend for a jog. With the temperatures easily rising to the low 80's from here on out, I have to assume that wearing the carpet out is going to become a large burden rather quickly. It's not over until the blades connect, but I still find myself slowly beginning the lament. From the corners of my townhouse, a softoned, reedy dirge begins. The cats crouch tensely, suspicious of the morrow's activities. Perhaps they, too, shall mourn the passing of the shrub. For them, it is like a living menu of all the things I have eaten throughout the day, things that they sniff greedily at the vestiges of when I come home in the evening. Honestly, seeing it written down like this, it kind of makes doing it even more compelling. I leave you with the words of Shakespeare, from his excellent and dismal study of the downfall of that lovable Scottish king, Macbeth:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

This has been brought to you under the influence of New Belgium Brewery's Might Arrow Pale Ale. 'Atta girl, Arrow' indeed.