Look! I even SIF myself in my drawings! You'll notice you can actually see neck fat and chins, but there is hair placed to cover them. Also, while I got my eyes crooked, I don't think they're as crooked as they tend to appear IRL.
Anyway.
So I needed foundation, the makeup kind, not the fundamental kind . . . well, I probably need that too, but just in practical terms, I needed the makeup kind more. Plus, it's easier to buy Cover Girl at Walmart than it is to buy nurturing and stability. At least for right now.
Anyway, when we get home, my roommate explains to me that he had to get the next shade up from what I usually get because what I usually get is discontinued or something. In this case, it works like this. The shade Left in a Pitch Black Room for Ten Years is no longer available. Possibly Might Be Alive Poke It With Stick To Find Out is as close to pale as I can get.
I thank him for getting the makeup for me and all the while in my head I'm plotting curses on whatever normalizing motherfucker discontinued the whiter shade of pale that I like to slather onto my face. I kind of want to kill them and suddenly feel overwhelmed by how the whole world is trying to make me look like everyone else. I lament how makeup, something once used for self expression and the personal basking of unique flare (you know, back in the '80s) had been twisted and over worked to become something to make everyone look the same generic color.
I open it up, run a bit on my finger, and test it on my hand to see how orange I'll be.
It blended perfectly.
I stared at my hand in horror. What did it MEAN? Was the label wrong? Was I suddenly darker? Did the cosmetic emit some kind of toxin that made me believe it looked good on me?
And some logical part of my brain whispered that while I am pale, the makeup I used before always kind of made me look yellowish because of some undertone in it. Perhaps they just experimented and decided this coloring of the newer one worked better for most people, even the pale people.
Then I shut that stupid rational part of my brain off and went back to curses and conspiracy theories.
Anyway.
So I needed foundation, the makeup kind, not the fundamental kind . . . well, I probably need that too, but just in practical terms, I needed the makeup kind more. Plus, it's easier to buy Cover Girl at Walmart than it is to buy nurturing and stability. At least for right now.
Anyway, when we get home, my roommate explains to me that he had to get the next shade up from what I usually get because what I usually get is discontinued or something. In this case, it works like this. The shade Left in a Pitch Black Room for Ten Years is no longer available. Possibly Might Be Alive Poke It With Stick To Find Out is as close to pale as I can get.
I thank him for getting the makeup for me and all the while in my head I'm plotting curses on whatever normalizing motherfucker discontinued the whiter shade of pale that I like to slather onto my face. I kind of want to kill them and suddenly feel overwhelmed by how the whole world is trying to make me look like everyone else. I lament how makeup, something once used for self expression and the personal basking of unique flare (you know, back in the '80s) had been twisted and over worked to become something to make everyone look the same generic color.
I open it up, run a bit on my finger, and test it on my hand to see how orange I'll be.
It blended perfectly.
I stared at my hand in horror. What did it MEAN? Was the label wrong? Was I suddenly darker? Did the cosmetic emit some kind of toxin that made me believe it looked good on me?
And some logical part of my brain whispered that while I am pale, the makeup I used before always kind of made me look yellowish because of some undertone in it. Perhaps they just experimented and decided this coloring of the newer one worked better for most people, even the pale people.
Then I shut that stupid rational part of my brain off and went back to curses and conspiracy theories.
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