I mean that was a foot-soldier's war - Whereas this thing here should, uh.. I mean, I had an M16 Jacko, not an Abrams fucking tank.
He was trying to introduce us and in doing so, made the mistake of not deleting their previous conversation thread.
I also read somewhere that if you sleep with mascara on your lashes they are 70% more likely to fall out so as far as I’m concerned, maintaining real lashes that aren’t quite as plump as they can be is ten times more compelling than having none at all. I have accepted the reflection that reliably bounces back at me for its perks and its flaws.
More important than that though, I am comfortable with how I look. I understand that there are thick, dark circles under my eyes. I have noticed that my nose grows a little hookier on a near-monthly basis. I know there are wrinkles ready to stake their claim as full time residents on my forehead any moment now. My eyes will never be blue, my bone structure will never allow for you to mistake me for a Scandinavian model.
And what has that awareness elicited intrinsically?
It occurred to me last month when I was laying in bed beside my mother in a hotel room in Milan, trolling my own comment feed and half lamenting, half giggling about the abundance of distraught comments over the state of my face that maybe I wear makeup.
You could use it as an excuse to make some money disappear.