I love it. Birchbox wants me to "shake up my beauty routine". That's mighty fucking presumptuous on their part. Clearly, they have not laid eyes on this tired ass ghost of girl past. I'd probably have to actually have a beauty routine (outside of shower, wash face, slap on waterproof shit, stretchy headband to hold back the bangs I never should have gotten & rake the fur into a haphazard ponytail...& by "haphazard", I mean that I probably should have brushed it at some point today)...it's kinda like "Why bother when somebody's just going to spit on me soon anyway?".
I keep hoping that Stacy & Clinton are going to ambush me when I'm walking MGD to school...things are pretty damned busted then. Or maybe Oprah stages a style intervention for me at swim team. Or maybe I win damned Powerball & go all new money crazy. If I had people, my shit would look amazing every day. Every DAY. 24/7 of obscene new hotness.
I've got people now, but they aren't helpers. The big one wants to fight me in Panera, fart on me & then yell, "YaFACCCCCE!" as the answer to everything. Well you know what? Chicken Butt. Frog punch to the shoulder. That's what you get.
The small one...not a helper. Voted "Most Likely Poke Your Eye Out & Spit In The Socket" 7 months in a row. Always got to be in the bathroom with you. Chewing on cords & biting giant holes in the roll of toilet paper. Licking the damned toilet. Trying to stand up in the wet shower. Disappearing down the hall & bashing the sliding glass door with a stick. Spitter. Screamer. Newly & quietly obsessed with wedging himself behind the couch & ripping the surround sound cables out.
Jesus is testing me.
Old & busted in yoga pants. Beat down expression? Check.
At least my nails are done, right? Because that's going to distract everyone from...this. Like a giant rack. JUST LIKE a giant rack. Or a goat man.
Pig in rain boots. That's pretty damned distracting, too.
Busted.
Longer, leaner, faster, stronger!
Ashley
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