‘Hmmm,’ she wonders, her fingers hovering over the trackpad of her brand new, photogenic rose gold Macbook. In front of her, to the right, are three pots of succulents, carefully placed next to a photo frame with nothing but the words ‘Carpe Diem’ in a curly font. She studies the mason jar on her left, filled halfway with a strawberry milkshake, carefully mixed to the exact shade of millennial pink, to complement the walls of her room, dotted with various edgy photographs in white frames.
She hesitates as she skims through the tabs open on safari.
‘5 favourite drugstore products’
‘Makeup Revolution: Naked dupe?’
‘Living with anxiety’
’10 Lipsticks every girl needs in her makeup bag’
‘What’s in my handbag?’
‘Screw it,’ she thinks out loud. Oozing with confidence and determination, she clicks on the tab that reads “Write new post”.
10 beauty hacks
She sighs out loud, relief and pride exiting her black-choker adorned throat.
Ahem. Sorry, that was a little rude.
I’m pleased to say that nobody cares about my life. Probably. Except the devil who is apparently constantly trying to fuck it up.
Personally, I especially don’t think anybody cares about what’s in my handbag. In case you’re curious though, it’s full of old tissues, receipts, empty pill packets, and lots of pens. Sorry if you were expecting something glamorous; I do have hand sanitiser and a few lipsticks though. Who even needs that many pens when all they do is end up leaking all over said receipts? I don’t know.
I’m here to rant a little.
How many beauty blogs do we need? How many reviews of the Naked Heat palette do we need to see? Unless you’re gonna send me one, I don’t wanna see your swatches!!!!!!!!! There are so many!!!!!!! Stop!!!! Stop!!!!!!!!!!!
I want to hear stories about what you know, what you’ve learnt, what you think.
I want stories about how you left your comfort zone and for once in your goddamn life did something you’d never dream of doing. Tell me how you didn’t let your anxiety stop you from doing something you had been too scared to do for months, even years. I want to know what happened.
Tell me about how even terminally ill people can be venomous, interfering shitnuggets and how you don’t feel sorry for them, how you’d step over their cold dead body to buy a celebration cake. Like you would a normal person.
Please tell me what happened when you took a tab and went to watch Annabelle: Creation in the cinema at night. I would so read that.
I want to know things that only you can tell.
And be brutally honest.
Also tell me about how you give yourself a real good sit-down dance when you’re listening to Dejame te Explico, as I am now.