Apparently I slipped and I'm in trouble with everyone, though they're having trouble being mad at me since I look like I've been in a prizefight today, the explanation for which is the dumbest one you will ever hear.
I tried a Breathe-Right strip last night after complaints that my congested self kept certain people awake. Once I managed to pry the fucking thing off in the shower this morning it left a lovely bruise under each eye. It's just wonderful. And I still was noisy so it was all for nothing.
And I don't own concealer so I get to own this look today. Why don't I? You ask. Easy, I answer.
I tossed everything but my Diorshow mascara (waterproof, I'M NOT A TOTAL IDIOT) and my Dior Addict lipstick (Incognito for day, Bellissima for night). That's it. Fuck the rest. JESUS. Life is too short for all this fucking crap and I'm too old to figure out primer/spackle/highlighter/contour/blush/eyeshadow/liner/settingspray/bronzer/magicwands/goodlighting.
I mean, get a grip. It's a face, not a craft project.
So the trouble I'm in is for agreeing to help Caleb, who doesn't need my help but wants it and I willingly spoil him without knowing exactly why. Stockholm syndrome. Masochistic tendencies. I don't know. It depends on who you ask.
Maybe I just have trouble being mad at him, because he looks like Cole. And I was going to make a very bad joke here about soon not having to work for Caleb to make some extra money after I become the rich inventor of Grieve-Right strips that you affix to your broken heart every night to help you sleep but then they'd probably all just call in reinforcements and medicate me and I still have a ton of work to do today.