For the trophy wives and beauty queens

Attention: This blog has a choking hazard for adults over the age of 30.

I had a dream last night that I went to a gig with my girlfriends. It did not look much like a venue, but resembled more of an open case display, lined with the actors of my sexual fantasies. I stood in my most hideous form, as ugly as my insecure dream weaver could summon. I am talking the worst look I could possibly achieve. The look that could only be found if I was to be forced at gunpoint to leave the house immediately after my shower (she shudders). All of the girls in my dream looked stunning with a perfect bouffant and flawless eyeliner. The group of us stood in a large venue filled with every rapper who has ever warmed me between the legs. Grieves was there, Slug, and Josh Martinez, to name but a few. I was the only one of my already beautiful friends not adequately prepared for such an encounter.

I awoke from my dream feeling anxious. I made an effort to re-enter the dream with my hair and face painted on, but was denied access. Frustrated from my denial I rolled out of bed, shuffled the three feet to my bathroom mirror and stared at my surprisingly pale reflection. I touched my artificially straight hair, twirled my fingers around the purple and blue streak, thinking of the hour long process that awaited me later in the day. I pulled at the skin under my eyes and inspected the premature wrinkles forming around the corners, at the discolored skin of my eyelids. I scrunched my brow and stared at the freckles dotting my nose and cheeks. I attempted to mold my nose into various shapes contemplating which would work best post-op. I pinched the freckle on my bottom lip, and pouted. I began to think that collagen could sort out my face. I glanced back at the bag of makeup waiting patiently on the shelf.

If you are expecting me to say that I embraced my natural appearance and dismissed the need for makeup, well my dear friends, you are far from the truth. I picked up the flowered bag kissing its sides and cursing the days when I would be unable to hold my precious bag. I think this might be the cause behind my adverse feelings towards camping.

There is a chance that the excessive amount of thought I give to my external appearance will only produce a monster.

Post-Op Photo

But then I will always have my makeup.

Dear makeup,

I love how you hide my uneven skin tone.
I love how your bronzer and blush make me look like less of a pale freak, and all around better.
I love how you can color my eyes into the ones that can make men melt.
I love how your highlighter gives me the radiant glow only pregnant women and children can possess.
But I especially love how every man in my life says they prefer my natural, but fell in love with me when I had you on.

Love,
Your faithful consumer

To the society and the men who make it- you have always given me conflicting opinions on my use of makeup. I say screw you. I love my makeup. I will put as much, or as little as I like, and your opinion will mean nothing to me.

Women and drag queens, if you love your makeup stand up and salute your little flowered bag. I christen this day Makeup Day. Let us all celebrate what makeup has done for the drag queen, the trophy wife, beauty queen, and the all around average.

A very special thank you to makeup.

The world does need you.
<

Ladies, drag queens, and gentlemen, let me see your little makeup bag.

"Now you don't need money with a face like that do ya?"