Every morning I wake up, I have to look in the mirror and face something horrible. It’s like a gigantified tumor on my face. But worse. The millionth reminder that, “Goddamnit!” I’m a fucking girl. And there’s nothing I can do about it. (No, that’s not an option.)
This would all be fine and peachy if I was the type of girl who didn't view her existence and fem-habits as an atrocity to society. And could buy tickets to see "The Devil Wears Prada" like it's completely acceptable social behavior. But personally I find 8-balls to be a much more time valuable way to massacre brain cells.
But my brain is not the only part of me that makes decisions. I have this other little bully inside me, who’s pretty fucking strong. (For a girl). A dumb little floozy we call Estrogen. I fucking hate this bitch.
My brain and Estrogen are constantly having battles that make Celebrity Death Match look like the Berlin fucking Love Parade. At sixteen or seventeen, Estrogen used to be the clear winner in these brawls. But as my brain has become more developed (read: smarter) Estrogen is starting to be revealed as the pussy she really is and losing these fights. (Thank fucking god.)
Estrogen: Omigod, you will look so totally hot in [perfectly useless fem-product that even Paris Hilton’s Ferret is smart enough to avoid].
Brain: “Shut up, whore."
But sometimes she makes me do very stupid things that are completely out of my control. Like this weekend, when she discovered I was out of face wash. Even though my brain saw the perfectly acceptable bar of Ivory in the soap dish, I was drug by my heels to “check your logic at the door” Sephora . It was here that she successfully tied my brain to an outside poll and let it fry away in the mind melting Manhattan Heat. Thus, allowing me to fall under the temporary delusion that I would hand over my money to this store and try to, as their tagline says, “Believe in Miracles.”
I bought this:
Or as I like to call it, The Four Steps to Stupidity.
Step one: “Purity.”
A bottle of “soap” that really should be enough in one’s cleansing routine. But sadly, mostly for me, it’s only the first step. On the bottle it says, “Cleanliness is the beginning. Then you can begin to be who you really are.” What? A doltish shiny faced bitch who’s now slightly poorer in both intellect and pink coin purse for believing the mind numbing copy scrawled all over your box? I had no idea all that dirt and oil was hiding this. Thanks for exposing the idiot in me.
Step 2: Hope in a jar.
I’ll repeat. Hope in a jar. The actual name of the product makes a mockery of those dumb enough to consume it. (Including myself.) They’re selling fucking Hope. Not “Results.” Not "Shit that Actually Works." They’re selling, “Oooo, I hope it works! I wish, I pray, oh please, oh please!” I’ve also been hoping for an advertising job and, you know, eighteen million dollars. Will they sell me a jar of this too? (And if so, apparently I’ll be first in line to buy it.)
Step 3: Hope in a jar, part 2 for eyes and lips.
Notice the similarities of the bottle on the right to the former bottle of pipe dreams shown on the left. In this step, they have the nerve to sell a smaller jar of the same hope. Ironically creating less hope that I’ll ever regain a sliver of the former smartness that’s currently roasting away outside the entrance to Sephora. (If there ever was any in the first place.)
Step 4: Hope and a prayer.
The directions say to take a small scoop of this powder and mix it with a small dab of "Hope." Like this:
So let’s see. We've already established that I'm separating myself with my money for "hope." And thus, I’m a fucking dolt. So now you're just choosing to ignore this completely and expect me to be a fucking chemist? To take proper measurements and mix shit? You actually believe I’m capable of this? I think you may have won the Biggest Moron contest this time. And unfortunately your prize is my money.
So that makes one, two, three, four steps to what could have been a fifteen second affair with a bar of soap. Washing my face is now going to take about eight minutes every morning and night. Sixteen minutes a day stolen from what could have been time for more intellectually edifying activities like slapping my elbow with a spatula.
But time and brain cells are not the only treasures lost. The grand total of this cerebral abortion? Fifty-two bucks. I bet it’s not even that bad when you compare it to the beauty budget of your average “Devil Wears Prada” fanatic. But then I remember that most of the world lives off a dollar a day. And the girl inside me feels the sting of the bitch slap she deserves.
Luckily, it will take about 6 months to run out of this stuff. So, I’ll only fall victim to the bitch in me twice a year. My only wish is that next time I go, I’ll discover that Adobe has gone into the cosmetic industry, and started bottling Photoshop. Cause that’s a miracle that both Estrogen and I are willing to believe in.