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07:30 am | 26 May 2004 | i say a little prayer for you

Today, my darling babies, I have made not one but two entries for your asses, since I am not coming into work tomorrow (which is today, or so this entry posits, and that's all confusing and shit), but anyway here is some more idiotic rambling. Also: Yesterday at the lavanderia I caught an episode of the Simpsons where they were trying to decide where to go on vacation, and Lisa's pick was "Walter Gropius's Bauhaus Village," and it was SUPER EFFING FUNNY. Um, to me.

So, while I think i have mostly weaned myself from the OH GOD MUST HAVE MAKEUP CANNOT GO IN PUBLIC WITHOUT LADY WARPAINT WHERE IS MY OIL-BASED LACQUER OH GOD HELP teen phase*, you all KNOW you have those moments where something goes desperately wrong (more like, you become aware that you LOOK desperately wrong) and something in the order of concealment becomes absolument necessaire. The problem is generally that you're in some totally weird situation (snowmobile grass-drag-race, music festival in middle of field, boys' house, New Jersey Turnpike, El Paso), groping through whatever's around like a madwoman, going "Aaah! Aaaugh! Need something white/tan/black/pointy! Glug!" What to do?

(Note: Guys who are reading this: If you are all, "But my girlfriend/wife/sister doesn't wear makeup! She is just naturally beautiful all the time!"--nice try, and that's very sweet, but yes she does so. No. Shut up. Yes she does. Maybe it's only "rarely" or "occasionally," but there's a reason the word "never" rhymes with "I'm a stupid deludenoid." Ladies with mad skillz know how to use it invisibly, but the operative word in that phrase is still "use." I've got such a good eye by now that I can smell last week's foundation clinging to the crevice between your jaw and ear [and it smells like shame and pricey mineral solutions]. So yes she does. She does. You're stupid. SHUT UP).

My most recent contingent moment involved a band's very last show ever, my being in the last week of my previous job (which was in itself a slowdance with misery), and the tail-end of a month-long depression-bender. What happened? I broke out in HIVES. On my CHESTORAL REGION. AT THE SHOW. In a fancy-yet-still-pretty-much-just-a TANK TOP. Other choice moments for the contingency include: the First Morning Sleeping Over, the I Passed Out On Your Floor At the Party But I Still Desperately Like You, and the Can't Let You See I Was Just Weeping Uncontrollably In Your Bathroom Because Peter Schilling's "Major Tom" Came On And I Couldn't Deal And Now I Look Like Uncle Fester. In celebration of and tribute to the above (and with a special shout-out to Rachel), I give you

Non-Traditional Substances I Have Employed Cosmetically:
by no means a recommendation to mimic my idiocy

Ballpoint pen
Sharpie marker
Highlighter pen
Wite-Out (works GOOD on hives!)
Crayola marker
Tempera paint
Acrylic paint
Oil paint (had crush on TA of Advanced Painting class, 1997)
Nail polish (on face)
Flour (+ sweat = PASTE)
Cornstarch (just like Trent Reznor! fuck)
Food colouring
Dabber (from bingo)
Stamp pad
Cinnamon (tastes like burning!!!)
Powdered Kool-Aid mix
Olive oil
Charcoal (briquet, sans lighter fluid, from grill)
Charcoal (burnt end of stick, as though am cave painter)
Blood (sanguine! pugilistic!)
Sunblock (as hair-dressing)

The sad thing is that I'm sure substances will continue to be added to this list, although I hope that now, at least, it will be surmounted by the noble phrase STOPPED CARING ABOUT THIS KIND OF CRAP. Someday. Someday. I need more coffee! clm.

*Am, however, apparently still in phase where Embarrassing Both Myself and You, The Audience, With Gross Personal Revelations is feasible entertainment mode.

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