Thursday, July 13, 2017

Rebecca Wears Makeup (Sometimes)


Helpful Tips

Oh. Sorry. Did you think this was going to be one of those makeup tutorials? Maybe with one of those cute videos?

Get vivid cheekbones in three easy steps!

*chews gum loudly, arranges several thousand dollars worth of beauty products on a table top*

Okay! Here is my base dabdabdabdabdabdabdabdabdabdabdab 
and then we add a pop of color with this! Blotblotblotblotblotblotblot. 
And then we finish here...dabdabdabdabdabblotblotblotblot 
brushabrushabrushabrushabrusha.

Seeeee? It's simplicious! Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

No, my makeup tutorial would be more like this:

*deep sigh*

Let's see if we can do something about...all of this (gestures vaguely at face)
Okay, here is some eye shadow, it's kind of...grey. 

Yes, there we go. That's not so bad. 
Now no one will know. No one will know that.....
*bursts into hysterical sobs*
*sobs slowly turn into maniacal laughter*
*all the best bits from "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre"*
*screen goes black*

How Much is Too Much?

The problem is, when I look in the mirror, any makeup looks like too much to me. It just looks Odd On My Face. I swab on some mascara and suddenly: Tim Curry from Rocky Horror Picture Show. 

Or...Tim Curry from It.

That guy's eyebrows haunt my dreams. Like, in a good way.

But the point is, (if I can get it just right) makeup is like armor. It is a sparkly layer of protection from some daunting task. No matter how I actually feel, it makes me look like I kinda have my shit together.

The idea being that people will be so mesmerized by that smoky line along my eyelashes they will just TOTALLY OVERLOOK the fact that everything around it resembles one of Cthulhu's many buttholes.

Now. While wearing makeup makes ME feel more relaxed and confident in a stressful situation, it should definitely not make YOU feel more relaxed and confident. Quite the opposite, in fact. The following is a guide to how much alarm you should feel if you see me wearing makeup:

I am sporting the Porcelain-Like Shimmer of Edward Cullen; avoid eye contact and sudden movements. Maybe gingerly offer me a pastry. [Oooh, a pastry WITH ginger!]

I am somewhere in the Billy Joe Armstrong range: know where the exits are, and make a mental note to make sure your living will is in order.

I strut in looking like Divine: well, you should already have built a panic room. But it's too late now. You ass.

Makeup By Season

As all of my loyal readers know, Rebecca hates winter. For you horrible people who aren't my loyal readers, click here.

Some people's faces respond to the chilly kiss of winter by growing adorably rosy. Snow flakes cling to the precious tendrils of hair that escape their fashionable knit hats. These are the people that I want to murder with icicles, but I won't because that would make my hands cold.

Conversely, I shrivel into a pallid, reptilian-skinned horror. All of the blood in my body flees to my core in an effort to save itself. Among my red, irritated nose, hopeless eyes, and bloodless, dry lips, I look like the lovechild of some upsetting three-way among the Crypt Keeper, a komodo dragon, and a radish. If anyone can come up with a schematic for that sexual act, feel free to post it in the comments.

No, wait, don't.

The moral of the story is, I wear a lot more makeup in winter if only to avoid being carted off to the morgue by mistake.

But it is summer now, so everything is okay. Winter Is Coming, they tell me, but I'll think of SOMETHING before then. Global warming, perhaps?

My summer look consists of me being pale and super greasy and rashy from all of the sunscreen that my skin apparently hates. But you know what they say: "pale and rashy now, slightly less wrinkly when you're old." WORTH IT!

If there is some sort of event I may try to clump some Maybelline over the greasy rash. I call it my summer glow.

Why with the words?


I'm not really sure what the point of all of this is. Maybe just bookmark this post? Then if you are having a bad morning: you have fried your bangs off with a flat iron, or punctured your idiot retina with a mascara wand, reread this post (or have someone read it to you, if you are the mascara victim) and be comforted by the idea that somewhere out there is a fool who is that incompetent every day of her silly life.

Also, this is not a cry for help. I don't want to wake up one morning with some concerned citizen's knee in my chest, non-consensually contouring my shit.

Alright, off you go.


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