Most people remember their first love, first kiss, first car, first job, etc. I remember none of these things, but I do remember my first mustache. Others claimed it was a wispy mockery of the real thing, but I could see the seeds of greatness. I'd wake up early every day to water it and talk to it, and though I was sure this was helping, I was eventually informed that this is a practice intended for plants, and furthermore that I should stop shaving the rose bushes. Several weeks later I implemented this advice, but not before decimating the rose bushes and getting a nasty fertilizer-induced rash on my upper lip. I've heard time heals all wounds, but I'll never know because that rash was eventually swallowed up by the ole hair river on face mountain and I can promise you this friend: that river will never run dry.
Anyway, while my peers entered courtships, enjoyed/took up hobbies, took jobs, prepared for college, partied, graduated college, took better jobs, got married, had children, and did other things I presume, I tended to the fuzzy dash of happiness curled up below my nose. I was thoroughly immersed in the art of stache, and though I've been cautioned by countless social workers and aquaintances that this "obsession" is the reason for the long-term unemployment, homelessness, and total social isolation I've experienced up until recently, I think we can agree that there is always a price to be paid for greatness.