Great and Terrible Beauty (Products)

If you read this blog, you know that I’m a pervert  I love Ian Somherhalder   most of my posts are stupid I love makeup. I love to put it on my face, in my tea, and draw on things with it. Okay, only the first one, but trust me, I. Love. Makeup. And I consider myself something of an expert, since I’ve been messing around with it since I was 11.

The thing about makeup, though, is that it’s just like a man: some of it is just fucking terrific and leaves you glowing, and some of it is trashy and awful. And, also like men, the awful ones might surprise you.

So I did what I do best and put together a little list. I full expect my lady readers to run to their makeup drawers and throw out everything I say is bad. And dudes, I would say to buy your gals some of the nice things, but then they might take it as a, “Hey, ugly, please put this on to cover up your face” kind of thing and that would suck. Maybe just stick with lingerie.

Maybelline Great Lash Mascara: Terrible. This mascara is super popular and is always winning beauty awards, but I think it is one of the worst eyelash enhancers ever invented. Personally, I think the only reason it’s popular is because it’s ghetto cheap and it’s been around since the 80s, so moms keep buying it while fondly reminiscing about Duran Duran concerts. It does NOTHING for your eyelashes except make them darker and clump them together.

Maybelline Volum’ Express Mascara: Great. See, I’m not biased against Maybelline or anything–this mascara has been my one and only since I first bought the yellow tube. I seriously have about five tubes rolling around in my makeup case. It does exactly what you want mascara to do: makes your eyelashes super thick and long. To be fair, I have very long eyelashes, but they’re not thick, so I’m not sure about the fantastic lengthening powers of this stuff, but it makes your eye-dusters super lush.

Covergirl Trublend Pressed Powder: Terrible. Okay, maybe it’s not terrible, but I gotta have some continuity with my rating system here. This stuff is just powder for your face, and it’s not good for your skin and looks like powder when it’s on. Not the worst thing ever, but certainly not good for the whole “flawless face” look that, um, everyone wants. Grandmas who like to look like they just dunked their face into a 40′s flour bucket, rejoice–this one’s for you.

Physicians Formula Mineral Wear Talc-Free Mineral Airbrushing Loose Powder: Great. And yes, that’s the full name. It is lovely. It doesn’t make my ridiculously sensitive skin break out, the colors are really blend-y, and unless you apply it super heavy-handedly it doesn’t look powdery. Plus, one container lasts forrreverrr.

Physicians Formula Blush: Terrible. (I can’t find it on their website, so I don’t know the full name, but maybe they know it’s terrible and discontinued it.) The palest pink gives you rouged-on bright red cheeks no matter how little you use, and the applicator is weird and doesn’t work. I love Physicians Formula but this stuff was/is terrrrible.

Logona Blush Powder Duos: Great. So great they deserve all-caps. GREAT! If you’re not familiar, Logona is a German, BDIH-certified brand of all-natural makeup that is fucking stellar. I get their stuff at a crunchy natural-junk store near my job, and everything they make is good (their red lip pencil is amazing). This blush is right on par, and the palette has two colors for the price of one.

L’Oreal HIP High Intensity Pigments Concentrated Eye Shadow Duo: Terrible. Now, I have only tried one color set of this, and it was greens, which is a little weird to begin with. So these might not be all bad. But holy fuck, do I hate this eyeshadow. It goes on really dark and uneven, some parts going on super matte and color-packed and other parts sheer. A clean sweep leaves you looking like you rubbed your eyes after crying. AWFUL.

Revlon Colorstay 16 Hour Eyeshadow: Great. I own about seven different color palettes of these. They are color-true, although a little sheer, but you can layer them to get the darkness you want, and they don’t smudge unless you fuck around with your eyes, and then what do you expect to happen! These are, I have to say, definitely not the best eyeshadows in the world or anything, but totally solid for the price.

Okay, stop reading, and go throw out your old-ass green-and-pink tubes of Great Lash already!

I Hate Your Face

Have you ever been dating someone, and you either don’t really care for them or you’re falling out of love, and all you can see are their flaws? One day they’re handsome and charming, and the next day you squint at their face in total disgust and think, “Well, fuck me, you’re positively revolting!”

That’s mean, I know. But I can’t help it. My first serious boyfriend and I were that awful couple that never loved each other at the same time, so for the first year of our relationship I ignored him and flirted with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who smiled in my direction (which, let’s be honest, is a lot of Toms and Dicks). And then I finally started to like him as much as he liked me, and then BAM, he wasn’t feeling it as much, and then we both were matched in our misery and broke up. Boo-hoo, it happens, life goes on.

But let me tell you, during that year, all I could see was his Stupid Ugly Face. Due to the virtue of our locations I only saw him once a week, less if I could avoid him, but his mug was still a horrible shock whenever it came swimming into view on our weekly rendezvous. He had these horrid–tiny, miniscule, possibly the size of an atom–white dots near his eyes. And a giant nose that probably weighed 700 pounds. And his pores, his pores! His stupid rough hair and by GOD was his smile unpleasant, and why did his nostrils flare when he BREATHED?

You get the idea. I would literally sit in his crumbly apartment and stare at his face with confusion. But I guess this makes sense, because I didn’t really care for him and I had tried to dump him and blahblahblah.

The real problem lies in that I do this with everyone. Yeah, you heard me. Everyone. Close friends and my current beau get a pass, because my heart is fully of warm squishy feelings for them and therefore my brain cannot produce enough hatred to formulate mean thoughts about them. But strangers? Oh holy FUCK do I scrutinize you.

It’s not that I mean to. I fully realize what a shallow bitchbag I sound like, and in the interest of fairness, I do it to myself too. I could stand in front of the mirror with professional makeup on and just think about my face until I’ve magically morphed into a drooling, deformed troll. Blame the media or fashion magazines (or, if you want, my keen and observant eye) but it’s like looking at words and trying not to read them: your brain just does it. At least, my bitchbrain does.

So you know how your acquaintance asks if the hideous pimple on their face is noticeable, and you say no, because maybe you didn’t even look? Yeah, well, I saw it. And since I’m as sweet as apple pie, I won’t say a thing, but holy God is that a zit. And as for you, I see those bags under your eyes and the lint on your sweater and that weird tooth and the place by your jaw where the foundation isn’t blended right. But weirdly, I still think you–and most everyone, even after my brain rips them to shreds–is beautiful! It’s a rare gift. (Now fix that foundation, gorgeous.)

Wow, They Really Straightened Up the Place

Last night, I went dancing at a fine establishment known as a gay bar. Now, for any girl who likes to dance and doesn’t like 400 horny guys trying to rub their dicks on her, a gay bar has always been the perfect solution (gay girls are a lot less pushy than straight dudes). You get to dress up, break it down, and have fun with your friends without having boners shoved everywhere.

Or so I thought, because apparently, some giant asshole TOLD STRAIGHT GUYS. Yeah, that’s right. Some giant douche decided to spill the beans and whisper, “Psst! Pass it on! Tons of straight girls go to gay clubs–it’s the perfect place to meet the ladies!”

I mean, clearly, if I am a straight girl at a club with rainbow flags everywhere and bouncers who look like they just walked off a gay bondage porno, I am there for a reason. And the reason is not that I love listening to gay icons blare through speakers at 5,000,000 decibels. The reason is that I want to dance all night without having to awkwardly reject people. Nothing against guys who mack on girls at clubs–I mean, it’s a club. That’s like going to an opium den and being like, “God, what a bunch of drug addicts!” But come on! Sometimes, I just want to dance like a slut for me, you know?

Instead, I was assaulted last night by 387 straight dudes asking me to dance and following me around the club and totally trying to rub their creepy penises on me. And I’m not a bitch–I didn’t say, “Fuck you,” I said, “No, but why don’t you dance with all of us?” and gestured to my lovely friends. At which point the straight-man infiltrator would then proceed to shake his head to that request and then superglue his crotch to my butt.

This happened the entire night, including guys who just kept. Coming. Back. I would let them do their exciting little boner grindy dance for about two seconds, and then very smoothy lift their hands over our head and twirl around so we were all dancing together. Which worked for a while, until the Ted lookalike (of How I Met Your Mother fame). But I’m pretty sure he was gay (maybe? Do gay guys get boners when they dance with girls, because that was not a wallet pressing on my ass), so I just went with it.

On one hand, I can’t complain. They were all actually totally decent-looking, and three of them could even be classified as something approaching “hot.” And they were all, with the exception of a seriously misguided lil’ dude, taller than me. On the other hand–listen, dolls, if I was single, I would rub against you like a kitty cat and then do something a little naughty outside the club, BUT I’M NOT. So go back to a straight bar where one of the girls you dance with might actually sleep with you (but she probably won’t).

In the Ink of an Eye

Wow, that title was dumb! I’m talking about tattoos.

Yes, tattoos. Lately, I keep running into boring pieces about why they’re bad, then why they’re good, then why they’re kind of okay, blah blah blah. It’s all kind of like saying, “I really adore sardines, and since I just love them you have to eat them too!” or, “I really loathe sardines, and since I just hate them you have to not eat them too!” Or something. I mean, what is the point of writing an article telling other people how they should feel about tattoos? Your pen/keyboard/quill (kicking it old school, I like that) is not magical, and no one is going to agree with you just because you put it on your Facebook.

So you might be asking yourself, Well, you sassy minx, then what in the name of Dickens is this post going to be about? I’ll tell you: different kinds of cheeses and their native lands. First we have Gouda, and Munster, and…oh, did you know tattoo artists practice on cheeses before stabbing their inky needles into human skin? Damn, we’re back on the tattoo thing.

Basically, my point (disclaimer: I don’t have a point. What do you think this is, a paper? I just type things) is that you can feel however you want to feel about tattoos, but don’t push your bullshit on other people. One of the articles I read said a lot of boring blather about how women are classy and take care of themselves and paint their toenails (seriously, it said that…I mean, I skimmed, but those were main elements), and that tattoos totally ruin it and make women “trashy.” It also said women “hold the world’s beauty in their hands,” which totally discredits the face of Johnny Depp and the body of Channing Tatum, as well as some seriously impressive ab work by David Beckham.

And then all the pro-tattoo articles say that tattoos have meaning and your body is a beautiful butterfly of a canvas to paint with Ed Hardy logos meaningful art. And no, that tattoo sleeve does not make you trashy, it makes you a glorious walking Jackson Pollock/Your Favorite Artist Here.

I, personally, love tattoos, so if you think my summary of the pro-tattoo side sounds a little bitchy, it’s only because it does. I had to, to make it sound like I was being fair and not making fun of the prudish no-tattoo people (kidding, my milk-skinned dears). I think well-done, meaningful, not-done-at-3-am-on-a-Jack-and-Coke-binge tattoos are truly a form of art, and gorgeous.

But, if you hate them, and think that every dude/lady sporting a tramp stamp is, well, a tramp, that’s cool too. Because I don’t care. Isn’t it cool? I have my own opinion, and it doesn’t match your opinion, but it’s okay, because we’re grown-ups and I don’t even hate you! Aren’t you glad you read this? Now you can look down at your Mike + Jenny 4Eva tattoo fondly, or look down at your bare skin glistening in the moonlight and be all, yeah, fresh as a baby’s bottom! The WildHearts guarantee: EVERYBODY WINS.

Dexter Is Still Sexy

I am way, way, way behind on this show. It is great. If anyone leaves a comment telling me anything that happens halfway after season two, I’ll make like Dex and chop you up (just kidding, that’s creepy and I’m a little squeamish).

But I have a problem, and the problem is that I can’t watch it without wanting to fuck Dexter. Not Michael C. Hall. Michael C. Hall has been divorced twice and seems a little slutty. Dexter, on the other hand, is a delicious sexy monster man with emotional issues and seriously jacked arms (well, I guess Mikey Hall has those too, but moving on).

And I’m sorry, but the scene in season one where he goes to the therapist and uncovers some cray-cray emotional flashbacks and then goes over to his girlfriend’s house and gets it in? Hottest. Thing. Ever.

See, I hate blonde men, and I really hate gingers, and Michael C. Hall is a mix of both. And he has blue eyes, I think, and despite the Cro-Magnon brow he has a tiny bit of a pretty-boy face. None of these things are my thing; in fact, they are the opposite of “my thing.” But something about Dexter makes me want to do omhfdngfjnjksgnd ridiculous things. He just has some kind of magic sexual sparkle dust that he, like, throws into my eyes from the TV screen. I mean, I’ve written a post about how hot he is before, but lately I am just overcome with lust watching that show.

I think it’s just animal magnetism. Like with Kayne West or Eric Dane or the guy who plays Thor–none of those guys are my scruffy, scrumptious type, but they just have that something sexy. And, well, yup, that’s pretty much my whole point with this post: I THINK CELEBRITIES ARE HOT AND I WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH THEM. There, that would’ve summed things up. But then you never would’ve seen that shirtless photo of Dexter, and I couldn’t deprive anyone of that pleasure.

Things I Hate, Part Hatey-Two

Sometimes I hate things. These are some of the things I currently hate.

Not tigers. I love tigers.

1.) People who call women “females.” A girl cat is called a female cat, a bitch is a female dog (or your mother), and a chinchilla with lady parts (ew) is a female chinchilla. A female human is called a woman, or a girl, or any-fucking-thing you want besides female. It sounds weird, and kind of degrading considering the only other time it’s used is for animals. This fellow, Mr. Treat Women Right of Twitter fame, posted a tweet that said, “#Females have a bad habbit of holding on too long, #Men have a bad habbit of letting go too easily.” Dear Mr. Treat Women Right: First of all, I don’t know what a “habbit” is, and second of all, tweeting “females” and then “men” instead of “women” and then “men” is retarded. Would you say, “I’d like a peanut butter and preserves sandwich” or “Bread and margarine”? Well, you probably would, because you’re a weird freak who reads Cosmo, turns the advice section into mushy tweets, and then probably gives STDs to one of your 314,116 followers.

2.) The ridiculous, overgeneralizing, sappy, feel-bad-for-me quotes on Tumblr. SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. I am not really sure when teenage girls are going to realize that 100% of people–even other teenage girls–would rather be around happy people than miserable people, but for the sake of my brain, I hope that time comes soon. I would just unfollow every single Tumblr who posts that shit, but then I would offend a lot of friends and also be following no one.

3.) Stare-ers. Put your eyes back in your head or else I will do it for you using something spiky. I absolutely loathe being stared at. I know that I am a ridiculously sexy, gorgeous person, but when people look at me for longer than, say, ten seconds, their eyes have worn out their welcome. The world is a large and glorious place with much more interesting things than me to look at. This weird girl who looked like the Michelin Man stared at me for so long her head kind of turned around like an owl’s. I hope it got stuck that way and now she has to spin in a circle to do her full creeper stare.

4.) Not coming during sex. This only happens in circumstances where being interrupted or cockblocked is involved, because the Boy knows how to do his job, but I firmly believe there is a lady version of blue balls. Blue boobs, maybe? It makes me feel like a tingly pent-up bomb. (Except diffusing me is a lot more fun…ooer.)

5.) Feeling like a dick because I hate things other people like. I don’t like feeling like a ranty neurotic nitpicky weirdo. So now I double-hate all the things I hate!

I still love you, though, my faithful delicious readers. If I could I would send you all bonbons for Christmas, although I have never have bonbons, because they sound delightfully French and fancy, and those are two good adjectives.

 

Come On, People

So, I heard this rumor, and it’s horrible. It’s right up there with “Santa isn’t real!” (bitch, just because his handwriting looks just like my mother’s doesn’t mean anything) and “You can get AIDs from mosquitoes” (trust me, once you think that you can’t un-think it).

The rumor is that some ladies have never had an orgasm.

Now, there are instances where that’s okay. For nuns, say (although personally I feel like Jesus is a nice dude who would totally forgive you if you rub one out to the hot vicar, but I don’t want anyone to pick up any nasty habits…SEE WHAT I DID THERE? Nun puns, I love ‘em). Or for fourteen-year-olds (to be fair, however, if you’re fourteen and having sex anyway, you might as well have great sex).

But unless you’re a fourteen-year-old nun, that is just not acceptable. Not having orgasms is like not being able to feel sunshine, or pet a dog, or wake up in a cozy warm bed. It’s like having stumps instead of legs when all your friends are marathoners. It’s like getting slapped in the face every time you open a car door. It’s like…well, lots of bad things. Orgasms are great. Greaty great great. But I guess there are some women who just can’t come, no matter what they do; it’s called female sexual dysfunction or some shit.

To all those ladies: I am so, so sorry. Maybe go to some doctors and stuff. But for everyone else, think about those people, and then think, “MY LIFE IS AWESOME.” And then go have sex in a bunch of fabulously flexible positions (can I just overshare here and tell the People of the Internet about how much exercise-ball sex I had this week? A LOT. Do it, it’s great. You can like flip upside-down and wrap your legs into a pretzel and it doesn’t even hurt). Come on, people, do it! (Ha.)

Just Wanted to Let the Internet Know…

…That I don’t really care for the look of shaved balls.

THERE. I SAID IT. IT’S OUT THERE. Phew, what a relief!

No, seriously. Thanks to the lady-porn machine that is Tumblr, my eyes were assaulted by two (two!) pairs of hairless balls doing some nasty things. I was like, “Scroll down, scroll, ooh a kitten, scroll, haha memes, scroll, HOLYHAIRLESSBALLSACKSBATMAN!”

This was the cat's reaction to seeing so much naked freeballing.

This, of course, caused me to reflect on the many different forms of ball-scaping I have seen. Which is that all the balls I have encountered had some hair. Not, like, Jumangi hair (with one horrible notable exception that shall never be spoken of again…aside from in my 82-chapter tell-all book, In the Forest, The Mighty Forest…Of Pubes!, coming soon!). But hair.

You know what hairless balls look like? Tumors. Or two naked mole rats in a very awkward place. Or a flesh-toned bottle-nose dolphin.

So now you know my long-awaited opinion on waxed balls. You’re welcome.

Craigslist Genius

Craigslist can be a creepy fucking place. I mean, everyone’s soliciting sex and trying to sell their 400-strong collection of homemade glass dildos and not-so-secretively looking for illegal immigrants to work in their pizza shop. It is just a bizarre corner of the Internet.

But sometimes, it’s awesome. I have no idea what part of Craigslist this was posted on, or who said it, and I don’t care, because it’s pure genius. Some rando wrote a post called Just Fucking Fuck Me, Already, and it is glorious.

Basically, it is some lady giving a heads-up to dudes about what women want in bed. And she is spot-on. I could sum it up with “stop trying to be all nice and sensitive and just give a lady a good pounding,” but then you would miss the hilarious nuance (like “It’s OK for you to make noise. Otherwise, we feel like we are fucking a ninja. Unless you actually are a ninja, and have sneaked into our rooms with vibrating nanuchaku and zippered black pajamas, please, please make some noise.”). So go read it.

Side note: while I totally, 110% agree with all of her advice, she says, “Most women like to be fucked, and fucked well.” In my own experience, that’s not totes magoats true; I know a ton of girls who waaayyy prefer the kind of slow, sensual, romantic shit that is my kryptonite (as in, generally not my thing, not as in, “Ooh it’s so great it just kills me!”). So I can kind of see some poor dude being like, “Okay, lady!” and then getting charged with rape. Awwk-ward. But then he can just write a “Missed Connections” seeking “Girls who won’t press rape charges” and it’ll all be fine. Right? Right.

Honey, Shut Up

Life has some awkward conversations. Like the, “Oh, when’s the baby due?” chat with the fat girl. Or the let’s-talk-about-my-suicide-attempt talk (what are you supposed to say to that? “Better luck next time?”).

But tops on that list has to be men reading you poetry. Maybe that doesn’t count as a conversation, because they’re just blathering on for a zillion years and you’re just sitting there with glazey eyes, but it’s my blog and I do what I want so nah nah nah.

I mean, seriously. In the movies they make it all romantic and the guy is staring at his beloved and holding her hand, and there’s sweeping music in the background, and OH MY GOD IT’S THE SWEETEST THING EVER MOM WHEN WILL BOYS READ ME POETRY? No, but for real, every effing preteen girl I’ve ever met swans around longing for a boyfriend to sing to her or send her eighty-seven pages of love letters in flowy cursive.

But as anyone who’s ever had a guy read them poetry knows, it is awkward as fuck.

What are you supposed to DO while they’re moaning on about your “ocean eyes” and “legs that trail on like a sentence”? I mean, I like a compliment as much as the next girl, but you could just be like, “You have great eyes,” or, “The way your legs look in that dress makes me want to have sexual intercourse with you.” You know, the normal stuff. And then a normal, confident adult can respond, “Gee, thanks.” But you can’t do that when someone’s reading you poetry, because it seems pretty dick and flippant (dickkant?). For example, if the dude says, “So till the judgment that your self arise, you live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes,” and you’re all, “Sweet, thanks,” you’re being dickkant.

"I don't know why she didn't like my poem; I modeled it on Conor Oberst's songwriting style."

So what do you do?!? You can’t smile a lot, because then it’s like you’re laughing at them, which you probably are since they’re reading you shitty poetry. And you can’t frown, because then you seem like you hate the shitty poetry, which you do. And you can’t say anything, because they’re too busy yammering away. So your only real options are a.) Tell them to shut up because you don’t really like poetry and people reading poems about your face is super awk, b.) Run away, or c.) Stand there like a goon with a half-smile half-frown.

Guess what? All of those options suck. So, I propose option d.) Invent a time machine, hop in that sucker, and go back to Billy Shakespeare’s house and sock him in the face.

Wrong again, Billy!