I decided to start out easy, work up to more ambitious facial food-placing once the wine bottle is popped.
Because when I think of moustaches, I think of Henry, and then I think of anger and frustration.
I stood outside and stared at people for a minute or two, then I came back in. Alisha was trying to talk to me about some show she likes, and I kept scrunching up my face and stroking my mustard goatee to emphasize my interest.
“I can’t even look at you,” she yelled. And then, “I hate you.”
Please send over your requests. If it’s a food I’ve got in the house, I will slap it on my face.