dear loyal followers, i address you today not by way of reselling my shart-stained 70s denim for $650 on grailed, or the carousel post of film photography that i paid someone else to take for me— but with the sincerity of the common man.
recently, during my presentation for PSYCH 168 on the formation of cliques and group identity, my signature mustache began crawling off my face and towards the door to begin her migration southwards for the winter.
and so, it was revealed that the signature stache i had sported for months was in reality a wee fuzzy caterpillar. in response, my comments and dms have exploded with unkind language and accusations, calling me a ‘bald-faced liar’ and a ‘baby-faced animal abuser.’ so today, i apologize for my opacity on the origins of my mustache.
i fucked up, okay? and i get that now.
with all that said, what i will not tolerate in reaction to my simple err is the total desecration of my character.
that caterpillar— who has a name by the way (Julia Casablancas) — was but a babe when i found Her in critical condition following a tour group stampede in the sculpture garden.
confronted with the sight of poor, innocent, helpless Julia i suddenly knew that it rested on my shoulders (and later my upper lip) to never let her be in harm’s way ever again. so i hid her in the most inconspicuous place, where most people never dare to trek, right under my nose.
however, nursing Julia on my upper lip had some unintended consequences for which the world has attempted to brand me a ‘bad person’:
so please, before you come to my attack, please understand the context of this story,
Julia’s story,
Herstory.
& hold some space for that.
to leave you all with some parting words by Sylvia Plath,
“Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——”
signing off,
rivers cuntmo