I think it's time for a career change. Makeup is starting to depress me. The way these women talk to people in stores is ridiculous. "Hi, how are you today?" "Spice" They have become so conditioned to being served that when I stare blankly at them and reply "yes? what about it?" they are shocked that I didn't run and get it for them. Or if I do grab a box then they demand, "well I'd like to see it before I buy it!" I hate those fucking upper west side bitches. The way they obsess over finding the right shade of pink/brown/red is fucking moronic. It doesn't look good anyway. And there's another thing that is depressing me. Some people are just unattractive. No matter how sweet or kind or polite they may be, they usually get brushed aside because just one look will tell you, there's not much I can do to help. And that actually breaks my heart. They're the ones who need the most help, and will wait patiently and be so polite when they receive it. And, really, at the end of the day, it is just makeup. It comes off every night. So what can I really do for you? I once changed this lady's life with concealer. She had just gone around living with these killer dark circles, but I opened her eyes (excuse the pun) and she would come by everyday just to say thank you. It was so sweet, but it started to get to me. Because, what did I do? I sold her a fifteen dollar concealer, a thirty dollar brush to put it on with, a thirty dollar eye cream that helps in the effort, and a twenty five dollar powder to set it all. More importantly though, I got her fixed. I got her on a routine that she'll probably follow for the rest of her life. That's what they pay me for, for snagging that repeat offender. And for what? I'm like a drug dealer. I have your quick fix, but it's nothing permanent. Your concealer isn't going to make your problems go away, and I sure as hell can't. I've got enough damn problems and insecurities of my own to actually care what your powder shade is, and sadly, that's probably what I'm thinking about while I'm trying to match you. It's all so depressing. Like I'm selling empty dreams. And I'm buying them too. If I have the right amount of black eyeshadow and the tannest skin in the room, maybe I can make him look twice. And god, does it hurt when you know it doesn't matter. I really don't care if this sounds conceited, but I'm saying this because I'm sure it will come off that way. I can only assure you that I don't think any better of myself because I am most likely prettier than you are. I can often walk into a room and be the prettiest one in it. I can make men's heads turn and women's eyes glare. But the men are thinking "God, I'd like to fuck her," while the women are thinking "God, I'd love to kill her." I'm the one they want to fuck while, you're the one they want to marry. So does that leave me screwing your husband on the other side of your picket fence? I don't have such high regard for sex anymore. I am jaded and desensitized and boy, how that scares me. Isn't that the way hookers get started? In search of a quick buck and an easy fuck and who really gives a shit cause it's just sex, right? The thing is, I look cheap. Cheap and easy. I can't afford your clothes, or your restaurants or your apartment. The yellow in my skin and the last nine letters of my name give me away. And you can see right through me. I am the Designer Imposter version of yourself. I have the tiny dog, but mine has Kennel Cough. And the worst part about it all is I'd give anything for that. Not the money or the clothes or luxury apartment, but the power. I swear, people look at you differently. People can't see through a vintage mink coat, only my polyester hoodie. I just want to be more like you. And I feel like I'm running out of time.