Moustache, mustache, or ’stache–the word stirs a powerful feeling of pride in those brave enough to affect them. Many a man, (and perhaps some women) have sported mustaches: Tom Selleck, Mahatma Ghandi, Mr. Moneybags. The community has been swelling in numbers recently, perhaps due to the shaggy romanticism sweeping the nation.
This fundamental failure to connect the dots between the flaws of reality – sexism, racism, rape, and cancer, to name a few – and the impossible dream of perfection pervades the life of every character.
Death couldn’t find any toothpaste. He opened the cabinets above the rust-rimmed sink. All he could find were little plastic packets of floss, his wife’s antidepressants, and the candy-colored bottles of Bubble Fun that his son used to love.
Carcasses of animals line the shoulder with their broken bones, blank eyes. Somewhere between the blackened blood of a doe and the silvery sinew of a possum I tell you I love you, rattling around in your old Ford pickup.
When someone makes his whole life scream at you on paper, you listen. You let it open you up. There’s no time for questions of practicality, of whether or not a course of study is “sensible,” of whether it will get you a job. When love comes, you eat it