There's Something I Need to Get Out of My Hair...

It’s been a while guys. I kindly waited until all of you were done with finals so that I wasn’t the cause of major grade-droppage due to unseemly amounts of procrastination brought on by a new Liz Lemon Anonymous blog post.

 More believably, my absence may have had something to do with the fact that Netflix (God? Same entity?) answered my prayers and in a very be-careful-what-you-wish-for fashion put all of the seasons of Say Yes To The Dress on Instant Play the week of all four of my finals. 

My taste preferences CREATED this unseemly thing

I swear to god, if this TV addiction keeps up I’m going to need to get a fairy godmother in here to slap some sense into me. Or Intervention. Which would sort of defeat the purpose of curing my TV addiction, but would still be sort of cool. 

You are in no place to judge, you are in the animated Thumbelia movie.

It got so bad that I even considered staying up to watch the Royal Wedding live. Then I reminded myself that most of the wedding would be filmed behind Prince William and I realized that nothing, not even an Alexander McQueen wedding dress, would be titillating enough to make me voluntarily wake up at 4 am to watch premature balding in action. 

Harry is just so obviously the cooler son.

Premature balding is forgivable, mostly because no one really chooses to look like a molting bird that early (how about NEVER), but there are some manscaping decisions that honestly leave me reverse-salivating (it evokes a sense of “I just threw up a little in my mouth. No, really.”).

Facial hair: it does bad things to hot people. Sad Jack agrees. He also wants to let us all know, "WE HAVE TO GO BACK."

I have already declared war on the soul patch, but really, unless you’re Santa Claus, legitimately a lumberjack (who makes me pancakes), or Freddie Mercury, I have a hard time A-OKing anything more than some tastefully kept 5 o’clock shadow. 

Yes you were, Mr. Mercury. The root of all of my accidental gay man crushes.

To sum up, men with facial hair who are not in one of the previously aforementioned categories, or are not in facial hair competitions (which are obviously discounted since they make SCULPTURES out of their HAIR),  are on a similar level in my mind to people who talk incessantly about doing yoga. 

That is a moose. A MOOSE. WHAT.

No, I do not want to see your new Namaste tattoo or your patchy, rodent-attacked excuse for a beard. Just…no. Now excuse me while I go watch reruns of 30 Rock and quietly mouth the words to all of the lines, like the adjusted, successful human being that I am.

Update: After seeing X-Men first class this weekend, I can say with much certainty, that the following picture is the correct way to do everything. But specifically, facial hair.

You guys can make me comfortable any day.

Moar Fassbender/X-Men love: The Similarities Between X-Men: First Class and Inglourious Basterds