Mustaches.

There's not many things in this world that instantly let one know that you're serious.

Mustaches are one of those things.

I'm not really quite sure what it is. It seems like common consensus among America's youth is that mustaches should be reserved for either 40-year-olds or child molesters. I am neither. Nor am I Italian (which, of course, would get me some leeway in the mustache department).

This consensus is wrong.

Mustaches are one of the few things that manages to be both noble and badass. So why are they so scorned? A month or so ago, I decided to show convention what I'm made of and grow a mustache. I liked it. Girls didn't. Tony, my roommate, was also not fond of the 'stache. So much so that he, very forcibly, suggested I shave. Repeatedly. Ultimately, I gave in.

And so I'm left with one hope. Recently, hipster kids have found that things considered socially kitsch and in bad taste (like Motley Crue t-shirts, leisure suits, cigarettes, and cowboy boots) are a happy shade of ironic and, therefore, cool. Maybe the mustache can enter into the echelon of the ironically hip.

Or maybe I'm just tired. Goodnight.