To my beloved five-bladed razor, words cannot describe the longing I feel for you. I have left you behind me, back in the sweet Napa Valley in my haste to pack. You have kept me from looking like a complete hobo through good times and bad, through interviews and finals weeks, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Now as my penance for so carelessly leaving you, I am stuck shaving with a razor with 3 blades. 3 blades!? Why don’t we just go ahead a get rid of penicillin while we’re at it? What am I, a caveman using some jagged-ass rock to saw my beard off? I could have whittled blades sharper than these out of a good branch of oak. Maybe even pine too.  3 blades. I swear, every morning I take out that three-bladed monstrosity I feel like I’m busting out the toiletry equivalent of the zoon. A 3 bladed razor. A trifecta of dullness, uselessness, and pain on my face and in my soul. Oh sweet five-bladed razor, please come back to me, or give me the strength to stop looking at memes and drive to CVS.

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