Easy, breezy, beautif—my face ate my makeup.

Oh, my dears: it's not as though I want to look busted. It just happens that way naturally.

I have my morning routine just like anyone else. I wake up after ignoring my alarm nine times, and spend an extra five minutes staring at the ceiling, questioning my existence and why I insist on feigning punctuality.

Then I head to the shower, during which I'll take another—unintentional—quick snooze after I've lathered up. If I'm feeling ambitious I'll shave.

Once I'm out of the shower it's back to the bedroom, where I lay back down for, "just a minute" so as to give myself, "time to reflect" on what I'm going to wear for the day. Approximately fifteen minutes later I wake up with a jolt thinking it might be Saturday. It usually is not.

At that point I head over to my chairdrobe and rifle through my options until I find something that's sort of okay to wear. Even at 7:45am I like to challenge myself with outfits, thinking always that I can make something work. 

Fun Fact: This is because I'm contrary to a fault and hubris will be my downfall.

Now it's time for makeup. You didn't think I wore this, did you, my dears? But I do! But I do.

Above are the beauty products I apply to my visage almost every day. Starting clockwise: liquid eyeliner, UNDER-EYE CONCEALER AKA HOW I FOOL THE WORLD INTO THINKING I'M NOT DEAD AKA MY MOST PRIZED POSSESSION, the-rest-of-your-face concealer for the blemishes no one told you would pop up the closer you got to thirty, a brush to be used with the bareMinerals powder (center) that also helps fool the world into thinking that dewy pink and not gray is my natural skin tone, and mascara, which I sometimes also apply to my eyebrows because I'm so lazy I can't even be bothered with brow powder. Oh, and lip gloss (not pictured). 

Once I've applied my makeup and fixed my hair, I prepare my breakfast and lunch, gather the things I will need for the day, and it's off I go. I leave the house looking like a decent human being, and this lasts approximately half an hour, or, the duration of my commute to work. You see, I insist on doing everything the hard way (refer to Fun Fact above), and so rather than ride the train all the way to my office, I get off at a stop that is approximately a mile from the building and walk from there. Why, you ask? Because riding the train all the way to work requires a transfer, and I don't fuck with that. The consequence, however, is that by the time I show up at the office, sweat and my pores have eaten my makeup, and I'm left no better than when I woke. As the child of a Mexian-Spanish duo, I'm equal parts hairy and oily-skinned, so this usually cannot be avoided no matter how hard I try. And believe me, I try.

This is a book I grabbed from the take shelf at work. I got through about ten pages of it, became overwhelmed, and had to put it down. What rocket science is to everyone else, the application of makeup is to me (rocket science is also a challenge for me to understand, just so there's no confusion about that). As thorough and straightforward as this book is, I Just. Could. Not. Get. It. Right.

The upside to being in a constant state of beauty failure, though? Gym clothes. All I have to do to turn judgy shade into nods of approval is throw on some running gear, and instantly I go from looking like a human train wreck, to a hardcore athlete who threw all her energy into sport. Disheveled? I think not: I'm pure intensity. Not only do I get to wear stretchy things I can get away with sweating in, but the fact that I'm actually going home to sit on my couch and eat Cheetos is a detail no one is privy to but me.

How it always begins: unassuming and happy.

Silence + Noise silk blouse, Uniqlo jeans.

I still look pretty decent, nothing bad has happened yet . . . 

. . . which means nothing will!




Here I am looking evil as shit in all my arrogance.

Followed by me looking dumb as shit.



"Ees no funnee anymore."

"Really no funnee."

: (


And that's about it. So remember, guys:

It's mind over matter.