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a new series that consists of writing about an idea while on a subway ride
shaving hungover is a punishment for the night before. the three too many drinks, the inept amount of awful sleep, the debauched things you did to that bartender when she brought you to her apartment. not unlike any typical night, really. the headache, the shaky hands, the cottonmouth—they all combine to tear apart my face. I know as I lather the cream in my hands, staring at the steel blade, that my blood will be shed. I know this but I still do it. I relish the burn—not so much so walking around in my boxers with squares of wet, bloody toilet paper on my face, but more the fact that I deserved it. sort of cleansing in a way, a fresh start. maybe today is the day I start growing a beard.