Fahckmylife's Blog
Crap adult, OK human.



A slightly altered version of a bit of an oldie fictiony typey thingy.

This is the part where if this was a film there would be a montage.  You would see me in all my frumpy glory embarking on the hopeless mission of self-beautification.  As I am not used to doing this and because the task at hand is so daunting I have to start really early.  It’s been about two years since I’ve even attempted to put on make-up.  So bottle of wine in hand and fresh from the shower I force myself to sit down in front of the mirror.  As per usual I’m a little shocked my appearance again.  My face seems pudgier than the last time I saw it and my grey eyes are a lot puffier than I remember.  I’m both shocked and appalled by the state of my eyebrows. 

The montage would start with me trying to pluck my eyebrows.  I guess it would be more entertaining to watch if I had someone here to coach me and encourage me perhaps by rubbing my back and drawing me diagrams of how to put on eye shadow.  You would see me blowing dust off my make-up box. Queue the close ups of me putting on foundation and attempting to blend it, putting on rosy blusher and blow drying my knotty brown hair.   There would probably be another shot of me gulping down more red wine, spilling some and banging my head on the dressing table in desperation.  All the while with some cheesy eighties music playing in the background and I’m getting frustrated.  I’d have to start again several times and you’d see a shot of a waste paper basket filling up with wads of cotton wool just so you’d recognise how much effort this is.  I’d probably stop to have a smoke before I even attempt to pick clothing and maybe at some stage I fall asleep.  Finally after numerous shots of the various outfits that I could wear (which aren’t all that I assure you as I dress like a boy) you would see me smile a little at my reflection and toast myself. 

This isn’t even half the work that I have to put in to look in anyway presentable.  Last night.  I took a load of laxatives to crap out as much as possible to try to make my tummy a bit flatter.  It took an hour of trips to and from the bathroom to fully empty my bowels. I guess I look OK.  To touch on another cliché the kinda smart quirky ugly girl is suddenly transformed.  However, I’m not in a stunner in a ball gown, everyone shocked and in awe when I walk down the stairs – I’m just slightly less ugly and alone in my bedsit.  I’m wearing less clothing than normal though; a brown strappy top nonetheless.  To cover over my up arms I’m wearing a little wine cardigan which I’m leaving open. I’m still in my good old reliable jeans though – that would be too much change for me to take.   As I study myself in the mirror I wonder if it’s obvious how much of an effort I’ve made.  I don’t want anyone thinking that this is about them.  I mean it’s so obviously not – right?!  I look at myself again and realise that it definitely does look like I have some kind of intent.  If I can just get over the denial I’ll be able to move along with the whole thing and get over it before anything bad even happens.

But I can’t.  I’ve promised to go out.  I said I would.  My word is my bond.  I can’t even line my belly with food.  It won’t accept food.  A massive pulsing feeling in my head despite the fact that I’ve downed most of a bottle of wine.  I don’t have to leave for an hour.  Why am I ready?  I don’t even want to go.

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