My (grl)friend Jim is a bitch. When we started cohabitating the opening shifts at the taco shop, it was during my days (and nights) of indiscretion where a night spent at home was less frequent than a Kelly Clarkson song where she’s not angry. I’d stumble into work at the early hour of 10, and Jim would turn to me with judgement rare in West Hollywood (all sarcasm intended).
“Grrrrrrlllll. You look like shit.”
I couldn’t be mad. I did. While a picture’s worth a thousand words, the eyes are worth a dozen cocktails. On those mornings I started wearing black thick framed glasses with no prescription to hide the dark circles and avoid the rest of the world asking me how many lines of cocaine did I, in fact, do the night before, and did I ever sleep??
While my Lindsey Lohan regime has milded out, my under-eyes always keep a darker tint, no matter how many z’s I get. Is it genetics or just a previous lifestyle stuck on my face like those poor girls who got slapped on the back in One Crazy Summer with John Cusack?
One fateful day, my pal, Teddy and I visited a friend who was working the make-up counter at Bloomie’s. Queens who sell make-up are forceful, and she sat me down like a dominatrix, took out Erase Paste by benefit and did one eye.
they are not paying me, I swear