Things get creaky, the walls when I walk, the floor when I fall. A slow screech lingers in my head, invading the quiet, the dark. Sleepless nights, wandering around my house. Get up, piss, get some water, repeat 10 more fucking times until finally its morning and I can add some more pointless activities to this ridiculous routine. The heavy-headed dizziness of sleep deprivation overcomes me, becomes me. An hour of pilates awakens my limbs, filling my lungs with oxygen. Am I awake yet? Can you awaken when you never really go to sleep? A shower washes away the residue of the previous 24 hours of existence. Am I awake yet? Not really, no need to be. I will live forever in this halfway world between reality, dreams and unsleep. I paint a portrait of myself, intricately filling in every crevice and pore, sweep of eyebrow and curl of lash, smearing of red, the illusion of a mouth, an eye, a girl, a woman, a whore and a clown. Now I am here, I have arrived.
Tag Archives: makeup
Today, the hideous beast escaped again and shit all over my face.
Rosacea, you evil fucking bitch.
I am hiding behind mounds of concealer, foundation, powder and mascara.
Can you see me?
I am all I see,
everywhere I look there is a reflection of the face I am trying to run away from.
I spend hours trying to hide the evidence, applying, reapplying, erasing, filling every pore to capacity, I am never satisfied. The lines not right, unevenly placed, ill defined.
And now what? What is it for?
I am hiding, no one will see me today.
Today went to shit as soon as I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror. I occasionally get a hideous rash that begins on my neck and travels up and around my face. Last night it began to appear and by the morning it had staked its claim on my entire face, clusters of tiny red bumps that itch and burn. This shit ruins my fucking life; I can’t leave the house, I can’t wash my face and I can’t put makeup on. My skin is so uncomfortable that activity of any sort is really out of the question, so I go back to bed. I wake up, look in the mirror, yep, I am still a monster and I go back to bed. I shut all the curtains and stare at the dark walls, trying to pretend that today doesn’t exist. My dreams are filled with anxiety and frustration. In one scenario I am late for an important dinner being hosted by my dead Grandfather. I am frantically trying to get myself together but I look like shit, my hair is a knotted mess, I stink like ass, my dress is wrinkled and no matter how much makeup I slather on my face I look like a fucking red-faced monster.
At one point today a delivery came which I was alerted to by the hysterical barking of my dog, Choe. I wait for the truck to leave and hesitantly crack the door open. At my door is a $300 package of facial products and makeup that I had ordered a week ago, good quality hypoallergenic products. I am pretty sure that it is cheap ass drugstore makeup and cleansers that cause this rash in the first place seeing as how I have super sensitive skin. So, at least once my swollen beast like face calms down I will have decent makeup that won’t lead to any further facially offending episodes. Unless of course the rash has nothing to do with makeup and my skin never goes back to normal again. In that case not a single person will ever see me again. Yes, I am the vainest fucking person I know.
I started wearing makeup when I was about 14. I looked like a boy before that. I had super short hair and wore old man shirts and baggy pants. I wasn’t sure who I was or what I wanted to be. Then I found makeup. I realized I could be anyone. That first swipe of the eyeliner defined me. The full mask application of foundation hid my insecurities. The exaggerated flare of eyelashes showed the world I might just take flight at any moment. The rainbow of eyeshadow options let my imagination free to smear it’s ridiculousness all over my face. I soon plucked out every single hair from my eyebrows. FUCK!!! I had better get good at drawing these bastards on. And, I did. I really fucking did. My eyebrows have become the one thing that people probably remember most about me. “You know, that girl, the one with the eyebrows.” I can’t pretend like they are real or that I am even trying to make them look real. And I have no intentions of growing them back. And, NO I will never tattoo them on. Limit myself?? Never.
I realized a few months ago that I have spent close to an entire year of my life applying my makeup/mask. I wouldn’t take back one minute.