“Oh fuck me, another gift with purchase? You know, if it is in fact a gift, shouldn’t you pick it for me?” my strained and whinny voice as I stood with my pudgy, sweaty arms pressed against the thick glass at the Lancome makeup counter. Face scrunched to hell, back screaming from a day of running stacks of wine on a dolly, with the added tension of knowing that I would have to take my greased up, day-caked ugly mug to the makeup counter at the fucking mall. There to buy makeup from some tartish looking twelve year old chick that while sporting a pound and a quarter of face gunk I would never, in my life, try and putty on would blink her fake lashes at me, my head cocked as I looked at them thinking, “So that’s what it looks like when spiders hump” as she sized me up by the spent balls of day old makeup that filled in the deep lines of my face like caulk. Feeling deflated, fat, old, ugly and deflated I was reduced to begging the tart for help, “Can you….can you just pick something for me? If this” me waving my day weary…
Source: Samantha Sans Dosage
