This fucking handlebar has to go

or, I´m sure reading Ulysses in spanish is doing wonders to my style.

The hulking chunk of white hair and body fat sitting next to me started vigorously twirling his mustache with both hands. "Do you know, I usualy wear mine like Belisario Porras", he said, trying to tickle my panamanianity. "Wax and all. But I only grow my beard when traveling. It makes me look so old!" He started massaging his cheeks. Lying, he added "And i´m only fourty-three!" When he asked me again how old I was, i responded I was still twenty-seven, to which he retorted "And you´re a very good-looking man", lowering his voice to an even throatier whisper.

It never crossed my mind for more than a split second that my facial hairstlyle could be interpreted by the eager for the sure mark of either a (bear) cub, an otter, a (chub) chaser, or, worst still, an all-of-the-above. Is it not enough to refrain from putting colored handkerchiefs in my chest-pockets? Could it be that one´s safer walking down the streets of New York than while sitting in a Costa Rica-bound Ticabus? And, yes, that was a rhethorical question.

There I sat, gaze fixed on the distant television showing a tape of the Mean Girls DVD. Of course i couldn´t hear shit and the subtitles were but a yellowish blur at the bottom of the screen, but the pantomime reassured me that i wasn´t missing out on much. "This show´s much better", Michael said, pointing a paw at the sunset over the Veraguan savannas we were driving through, the cinereous Vienna wieners of his hingers mere centimeters from my face. "I´ve seen it before", i snapped back, forcing myself not to snap my fingers in the shape of a zee while saying it, as i knew that that would only have encouraged him. "Well," he added "I could just sit here and look at you." He was such a sweet-talker. I focused my attention on Tina Fey like never before. I wondered if the now cleanly-shaven Sufjan ever had this kind of problem.

So, see, this fucking handlebar has got to go. I swear right after my lips kiss Panamanian ground again i´ll wax them off (shaving is for sissies.) I was considering upgrading to an Adolf Hitler, but right now i´m veering towards a John Waters. As much fun as genocide may be, i´m more of the type who would have people warm up steaks in their own little ovens.

"Darien! Darien! Do you want a banana or a pear or something? No? Are you sure? We also have rum, if you want some" It was right then and there where I knew I was doomed. Doomed to spend the next ten hours praying. The End.