It's gonna get sappy up in here.
WELL. It was an EXTRAORDINARY week -- I mean last week -- erm -- here at xoJane.com, and I missed the whole goddamn thing because I was depressed. Deeee-PRESSED. Slogging around my apartment in leather pants throwing books at the wall all sad and a little hoarse and croaky-like, like Bob Dylan: “A HARD RAINNNN’S A-GONNA FALL.” Indeed.
AND while I was gone I basically got fired. FIRED. Jane talked to human resources. And I deserve it! I do! I’m the worst employee EVER, but it’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I don’t know how to be a human being! This is because I AM AN FEEL LIKE I AM AN ALIEN. ALWAYS. SOMETIMES.
CALM DOWN, Cat! JUST CALM DOWN.
Let me start over a little bit. OK, so: I don’t know what happened, you guys. The week before last week I was all “Laaa-diii-daaa” normal -- so I thought -- but the warning signs were all there.
LIKE: Every day for a week straight, last week, I got up and stalked my way over to Le Pain Quotidien (New York’s CHICEST pastry chain, really — have you heard of it?) for a manic, Mad Hatter-esque Tea Party. I wildly ordered toasted baguettes and double brioche then set about slathering apricot jam (like this one below by a company called We Love Jam) all over everything:
That’s right: JAM. There’s just something about it. Whenever I am starting to go crazy, I crave it like nothing else.
What I do not crave is being seen in such a state by anyone: co-workers, friends at parties, men I have crushes on. So by the time LAST week rolled around, I was done with jam, but I'd moved on to other things: not drugs -- I'm trying pretty hard to get over all that, and maybe this is all, uh, part of my recovery? I don't know.
Anyway, by the next week, I'd moved on to -- into -- my bad self, the self that shutters herself inside and doesn’t write and doesn’t answer her phone and who, Grim Reaper-like, wears hoodie sweatshirt bathrobes (though I got mine, chicly, at the Ace Hotel, dontcha know) and who gets strange and disassociative and starts smearing lipsticks on her face while chainsmoking Parliments even though I'm supposed to be quitting and things.
I italicized the name the make it fancy, 'cause it is. Damn, that's a perfume! It’s just so spicy and loony and gorgeous. Does this wearing-it-when-I'm-going-mad thing happen to anyone else? Nobody? Bueller? MHAHAHAHA.)
And I stopped going into work. It wasn’t like I was skipping out doing anything. Well, actually I tried to exactly one thing: Go to a Vice.com party on Thursday. I got dressed and took a taxi to Brooklyn and checked in on the VIP list behind a bunch of good-looking and rawther squawky French lesbians.
Then I walked in -- in plenty of time for the Rick Ross show, P.S. ... and had a total mini-panic attack. And ran the hell out! Because who can just be AROUND all those people like that?! Figuratively and literally. No, in fairness, there was a man there wearing a nightgown, and so essentially I just couldn’t. Social anxiety, mang! And depression -- or whatever it is: this overwhelmingness, suddenly, of life.
Am I clinically depressed? Am I bipolar? I do not know, and trust -- I am not looking for sympathy. I would probably diagnose myself as SPOILED above all other things, and while I'm not a doctor, I AM helplessly self-absorbed, and thus, I think, an expert by those ... pejoratives.
Hmm, where was I going with this? Right-o: depression. And beauty products to spring you from it!
WELL. I happen to know a thing or two about using beauty products instead of taking initiatives to seek therapy or whatever the rational solution would be (and I AM seeking therapy, because I'm totally screwing up my life and all that and no one is impressed).
In the meantime, there are these things to cheer me the hell up:
WOO! What isn't there to love about this fantastic product: a hefty bar soap that smells like fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice and fills your whole bath and bedroom adjacent with citrus-y, invigorating fragrance?
It's not the too perfume-y of a bath bar, however -- you know, the kind that would dry out your skin and make you all itchy and lame-o later in your Monday, as you confront the repercussions of of the previous week's self-indulgent isolation and self-centered, lazy misery.
No, instead it's chock full of 100 percent natural essential oils of grapefruit, field mint and sweet oranges. Hooray! I feel happier than ever. I guess.
I love these products by Liddell Laboraties! They're just like drugs, except they're not drugs. I like things to FEEL like drugs because I don't take pills anymore, or any kind of medication whatsoever (perhaps this is all part of the problem, durrr -- but I just won't do I WILL NOT GO BACK NO NO NO NO NO.) (Sorry.)
This has a whole bunch of weird stuff in it that allegedly alleviates the badness -- argentum nitricum for apprehension and the inability to start tasks, sepia to ease grief and the fear of being alone, ignatia amara to aid sorrow and "painful memories" -- and while my mean-ass psychiatrist dad would call it hippie bullsh*t, that's precisely why I keep it by my bed and spray it in my mouth every three seconds like a lunatic. I think it's working!
"Okkkkkay," you might be thinking, reading the title of this product. Yes, it is makeup that claims not only to make you look healthier -- glowier, bronzed, like you're a real, functional happy and flushed person out there living life to the max -- but also to feel happier. Uh-huh.
This bronzer formula is packed with natural plant extracts which have been shown to promote a feeling of happiness "by mimicking the effect of endorphins" -- all while helping to protect the skin from environmental stress. Well, why not? SOLD!
Look, even if you don't buy into the whole make-you-feel-good thing, I'll tell you this about Physician's Formula bronzers: They are the best ones in the drugstore, and I'm not even supposed to make other beauty companies mad by saying that -- but dudes, they are. I cannot tell a beauty lie. So buy this thing and I promise you will feel happier, even if it's just because you look hella prettier when you dust it all over your face with a big, fluffy brush. Ya heard?
Okay, well. I know that in the comments everyone is going to be howling about how sick I am, and let me tell you, I'm the first one who knows it. Time for therapy, bitches! And back to work, because my bosses are not impressed.
I promise I'll be posting a whole lot this week. Anything in particular you want me to write about? Leave your beauty story ideas -- and whatever else it is you have to say to me -- in the comments section, please.
Your Crazy xoJane.com Beauty Director CAT
Follow me on Twitter at @cat_marnell. It'll be ... adventurous.