scary stories

perfect razor

Efficient movements drag the razor across lathered skin.

I'm a very particular individual. I like everything to be a certain way: perfect. Perfect haircuts. Perfect clothes. Perfect bed. Perfect coffee. Perfect meals.

The stubble is removed from the upper lip, then the first cheek, moving on to the next.

I do not compromise. I do not accept anything less than perfection. My house must be perfect. My job must be perfect. My schedule must be perfect. My mannerisms must be perfect. My b-

THE BLADE MISSED A SPOT! NONONONONONON- Ah! That's better.

Where was I? Oh, how I wish my memory was perfect. The fact that it is not is a source of endless consternation.

I may be a perfect human, but the human form is hardly the pinnacle of perfection. Perhaps in the future I can get a perfect synthetic mind and body. All imperfect things should be removed, whether it be facial hair or anything else.

I remember when my German Shepherd, Alexander, started to misbehave. Initially when I bought him, the seller assured me his temper and training was perfect. Since that was clearly a lie, I needed to remove Alexander. Which I did in the most perfect way possible. A little addition to his food made him drift perfectly off to sleep. No mess. No fuss. Perfect.

There we go. He is finally finished shaving, and not a single nick on on his flesh. That is my perfect boyfriend.

As long as he remains perfect, as long as he shaves perfectly, never puncturing his bloodstream, he will never have to know what I coat his razor with every morning.