I wipe at my stupid eyes with the back of my hand, and it startles me for a second that my tears are gray. I dunno why it surprised me; I mean, I buy the s***ty mascara that’s $1.99 in the 20 Items or Less checkout lane. Why spend oodles of green on something I hardly ever use?
I just wanted to look nice, you know? Like those girls who’re just naturally fake pretty. The girls who can blend shades of eyeshadow like no one’s business, and match their lipstick to the exact color of their toenail polish or whatever. Seemingly effortless, yet impeccably coordinated.
This is good stuff, I should write for a living – solely on the subject of beauty queens with superiority complexes, of course.
I just want … God, what do I want? I want to feel the sun on my face and paint the clouds and hear the music in the trees and love myself and love someone else and just feel perpetually beautiful.
But that requires the $14.99 waterproof, fire-retardant, Grade-5-hurricane-resistant mascara, not the tube that’s two bucks in Lane 4.
My shoes are dirty and outdated, but that’s how I like them. I like these shoes. They’re comfortable. Why do I need new, expensive, fashionably appealing shoes in order for someone to say, “Hey dogg, you look nice today”?
And why is it that whenever I get deathly bored and slather cheap, pore-clogging makeup all over my face everyone suddenly says, “Wow, you look pretty!”? Since when is “pretty” about whale blubber and cocoa butter?
I’ll tell you one thing, though. I most definitely am not crying about some stupid XY.
Definitely not.
I’m crying for all the whales that have to give up their fatty insulation so that some fugly anorexic super bitch can paint herself pretty every freaking day, giving him something halfway decent to oggle all the time.
Seriously, I’m not leaking saltwater over a guy.
I just think it’s cruel and unfair that the fat-endowed marine life population doesn’t even get the slightest warning that they’ll soon be on a cosmetics endcap at K-Mart.
He could have at least broken it to me gently, you know? We’ve been friends since the George Bush/Al Gore debacle.
I mean come the Bette Midler on.
I spill my blood, guts, and viscera out to this guy and he throws down the “Let’s just be friends” card without a second thought?
It’s just … it’s common courtesy to ease someone into heartbreak, not smash it over their head like a whiffleball bat.
You know what? I’m going to take my $1.99 checkout Lane 4 mascara and chuck it right at her big, stupid square head.
I just wanted to look nice, you know? Like those girls who’re just naturally fake pretty. The girls who can blend shades of eyeshadow like no one’s business, and match their lipstick to the exact color of their toenail polish or whatever. Seemingly effortless, yet impeccably coordinated.
This is good stuff, I should write for a living – solely on the subject of beauty queens with superiority complexes, of course.
I just want … God, what do I want? I want to feel the sun on my face and paint the clouds and hear the music in the trees and love myself and love someone else and just feel perpetually beautiful.
But that requires the $14.99 waterproof, fire-retardant, Grade-5-hurricane-resistant mascara, not the tube that’s two bucks in Lane 4.
My shoes are dirty and outdated, but that’s how I like them. I like these shoes. They’re comfortable. Why do I need new, expensive, fashionably appealing shoes in order for someone to say, “Hey dogg, you look nice today”?
And why is it that whenever I get deathly bored and slather cheap, pore-clogging makeup all over my face everyone suddenly says, “Wow, you look pretty!”? Since when is “pretty” about whale blubber and cocoa butter?
I’ll tell you one thing, though. I most definitely am not crying about some stupid XY.
Definitely not.
I’m crying for all the whales that have to give up their fatty insulation so that some fugly anorexic super bitch can paint herself pretty every freaking day, giving him something halfway decent to oggle all the time.
Seriously, I’m not leaking saltwater over a guy.
I just think it’s cruel and unfair that the fat-endowed marine life population doesn’t even get the slightest warning that they’ll soon be on a cosmetics endcap at K-Mart.
He could have at least broken it to me gently, you know? We’ve been friends since the George Bush/Al Gore debacle.
I mean come the Bette Midler on.
I spill my blood, guts, and viscera out to this guy and he throws down the “Let’s just be friends” card without a second thought?
It’s just … it’s common courtesy to ease someone into heartbreak, not smash it over their head like a whiffleball bat.
You know what? I’m going to take my $1.99 checkout Lane 4 mascara and chuck it right at her big, stupid square head.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
LaurenE.
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