Smudged

There has been one, and only one, consistent occurrence for the past 6 years of my life:

At the end of everyday, my mascara is smudged.

I look like a fucking raccoon from 4pm to around 8pm when I get home to shower and start my night. It really is amazing how this is the one thing that has never failed me. Men have failed me; diets have failed me; my parents have failed me, but my trusty mascara will always be smudged for those last 4 hours of sun everyday. Just so that there's enough light in the sky to to point towards my hot mess of a situation. 

Now, like every person with a hint of brain activity, you might be asking yourself, "Bella, what makes your mascara smudge every day?" (though you should be asking yourself why you are still listening to me rant about make up).  The answer, my darlings, is that since the tender age of sixteen, one of the following factors has always led to me looking like a poorly adjusted tranny:

(1) Massive intakes of marijuana = munchies, paranoia, laughter, awkward silences, and a general "I don't give a fuck" attitude towards my eye make up. Smudged mascara

(2) Therapy= tears, tissue, tears, tissue, tears, tissue, silence, copay, times up. Smudged mascara.

(3) General presence of family: *see (2) Therapy and subtract copay*

(4)Psychiatrist= fake tears, give me more fun pills, fake tears, but no I really need them, real tears, prescription, tears of joy. Smudged mascara

(5) Daily Prozac intake= blurred vision, spaced out, hand-to-eye movements for no apparent reason. Smudged mascara.

(6) Waking up at 4pm post one night stand that I can't remember= 'nuff said

Those are my top 6 for the moment, I'm sure I'll find more and I will fill you in as I realize what the reasons are. As for now, you can look forward to my rants about just about everything, and practically nothing all at the same time. 

It is now 3:50am on a monday night in new york city... I just ordered chicken wings and a vanilla milk shake from the diner. I will type until the door bell rings, but once my food arrives you can all go fuck yourselves (in the most polite way). 

My food is here. Farewell ducklings.

PS. I also got a chocolate fudge cake, but i didn't want to admit it. I'm allowed to though, a guy I liked didn't know who I was when I texted him today, meaning he deleted my number within 24 hours of being inside of me. Ouch. Sizzle. Burn. 

-Bella