So last night was rough. Whatever. These are the times in the past few months that I have cried:
1. The Olympics.
2. When Facebook changed me to timeline.
3. When the pharmacy wouldn’t refill my birth control and told me I had to schedule a gyno appointment. Tears. They fell.
Is that a lot? Am I a “crier”? Again, whatever. It’s 6:30 in the morning and I’m delusional and kind of eternally bummed (I hate crying. Crying is not sexy/cool. It’s embarrassing and not a tool I use to get my way. Anne Hathaway nailed that shit as the maid in "The Dark Knight Rises" and it was fucking awesome, though. Bravo. Andy Cohen. Mazel! *golf claps*) Did I mention that my tummy hurts?
A few minutes ago, I peeled my sweaty, salty body out of bed and dragged my heavy bones, dense with despair, to the bathroom to release what fluids were actually left in me at that point. After, I took a deep breath and stepped up to the mirror to assess the damage. How swollen is my nose? Actually, how swollen is the zit on my cheek? Should I pop it? Do I have a mascara chinstrap?
None. Of the. Above. I cried and snotted and rubbed the wet goo all over my face for hours and I still look good, y’all! I started with a full face of make-up too; tonight was a look-hotter-than-all-the-glittery-groupies kind of night, but that ain’t no thing. Give me 8 minutes in front of my lighted magnifying mirror and I got that game on lock. (I even took pity on one wretched groupie soul and let her contour with my bronzer in the bathroom at the venue. I am the patron saint of drunk and overly chatty chicks in bodycon dresses. Here’s a link to a good brush cleaner.)
I tint-moisturized, contoured and highlighted, used cherry Chapstick for the perfect reddish pouty lips that you can still smooch around in, and dabbed the most flattering ruddy pink blush in the middles of my cheeks. Wait -- did I tell you guys that I live in Texas? It’s muggier than how I imagine Tyler Perry’s scrotum would be in his Medina costume. (Who am I kidding, he probably has a fluffy white Persian cat use its tail to dust fancy Lush body powder on his junk because he’s a rich celebrity.) My face makeup lasted, like, maybe an hour and a half after getting to the show before my pores said, “GTFO,” and dripped shimmering bronze sweat down my neck.
But I was left with the most impeccable cat eye ever. I’m really super good at painting on the little triangular flicks. (Let me qualify: No matter what your $3.99 shiny magazines tell you, you’re never just “flicking” on a cat eye. This isn’t fantasy marshmallow fluff sexy dreamland where cat eyes come easy.) I use fancy angled paintbrushes because what I create is art, people. But the everlasting heroes of my tragic late, late night were the products.
Enter: Estee Lauder Double Wear Stay-in-Place Gel Eyeliner in black. This extensively titled face paint comes correct. It’s matte, thick and unapologetically smudge proof. (If the little pot had a face, it’d side-eye your ass in the event of a goof and be like, “You’re the jerk who can’t draw a straight line.”)
For the lashes, I used Maybelline Full N’ Soft Mascara -- not waterproof. Stiff waterproof mascara freaks me out and if I were planning on crying in the first place I would have just driven around listening to TLC and ordering soft serve from drive-throughs. For a bit of smudge action at the bottom lashes, I blended Guerlain Terracotta Loose Powder Kohl Liner in black with a fluffy angle brush, then used the stick to line the top inner tear line from the inside corner to just halfway. This makes your eyes look HOOGE!
I combed my pube-esque curly brows down with my most favorite beauty discovery: Le Metier de Beaute’s Anamorphic Lash Mascara in brownish black. It’s wax-based, so it keeps my eyebrows in place without feeling stiff and flaking off like dried stomach cum. Plus it darkens my light baby unibrow hairs nicely because my burgeoning uni is my new “thing.” (Unibrows are a measure of beauty in some cultures… laziness in others. I tried to make the mustache thing work for as long as possible, let me have this.) Even after feverish, sweaty, bawling shakes my brows maintained subtle traces of sanity.
So yah, at a certain point my night took a turn toward Sobsville USA. The uncontrollable, lump-in-your-throat, confused, hold me, helpless kind of crying. The kind reserved for things you care so deeply about that even just the thought of losing them causes tight, painful numbness in your chest and head and the only thing that you can do to placate the feeling is stop pretending to be okay and let the pent-up tears come seeping out.
ANYWAY. As I cried, I wiped the blackish tears upward from just beneath my bottom lashes in elegant strokes with the full length of my fingers. My nails are super long right now and could cause irreversible cornea damage, otherwise I would’ve violently rubbed my nubby fingers right into my eye sockets in an attempt to plug up the tear ducts. This method was not intentional, but ultimately contributed to what are now my -- dare I say sexier -- smudgy black lash lines. The high-quality pigments, along with my “stroking it” kept my sexy/cool cat eye from migrating down my face like Wooly Willy gone awry. Why buy special foam-tipped wands and expensive grease pencils to achieve this look when you could just suffer through a petite panic attack for a couple of hours? Amateurs, all of you!
My nose is a tad swollen, but guess what else swelled up? MY LIPS! They’re all reddish and plump -- like they’re saying, “Fuck me, I’m sad!” Actually they literally did say that. Nobody laughed and I didn’t get any, which is why I’m sitting here writing this. My skin is also on the glow-y side, leading me to believe that snot facials could be the next big thing. STOP. Don’t Google that.
Alright. I’m going to try to sleep or something now. Do you guys have any funny stories?