I Figured Out Why They Make Fake Eyelashes

Fake eyelashes were invented for a very very good reason. No, it's not so Lady GAG-a can look like she has a peacock's ass taped to her face. No, it's not so drag queens can look even draggier. No, it's not even so Kim Kardashian's eyes can rival that giant butt of hers.

Fake eyelashes were made for people like me.

People who reach for sharp objects and aim for their face at the worst possible times. People who obviously should not be allowed to use electric eyebrow trimmers. People who accidentally lob off half of their REAL eyelashes while trying to groom their unruly Italian eyebrows and apparently do not have as steady of a hand as they'd like to think.

So, I've mentioned how I wander aimlessly in Target and never make it out of there without becoming at least $100 poorer, yes? The day I bought the electric eyebrow trimmer was no exception.

On a side note, let me also tell you that I have a terrible habit of doing irrational things when I'm pissed off. [Me? Do extreme things? And be all irrational and ridiculous? Never...] Especially when I'm pissed off at men. On this particular day, I was pissed off at work, but there are plenty of men that occupy the place that is work, so it counts. In the past, I'd usually take a pair of scissors and pick up chunks of hair and kind of chop them off. [Never did anything as crazy as Brit-Brit and shave my head] BUT I tended to want to change my hair when I was angry back in my college days and usually after all was said and done, I'd come out with jet-black flippy layers instead of silky strands of honey brown. Meh, it happens. We all deal with stress differently, right?

So I guess as I've gotten a little older, I've decided to take out my rage on other hair on my body. Don't want to discriminate, I suppose. However, since I could basically pass as an Olympic swimmer since I shave basically every inch of my body but my face, the only plausible option was to now attack my eyebrows. [I may or may not have an issue with body hair. And that issue may or may not have completely stemmed from the fact that I come from a gene pool of crazy hairy Italians with overbearing personalities to match their inappropriate amount of hair. And their inappropriate ability to drink their faces off. Whatever.]

So, right. I took mah rage out on mah hairs. I took that little, crazy, buzzing buzzer and smashed it to my face without every reading a direction. I tilted my chin down and aimed that eyebrow trimmer at the bushiest parts of my brows and it made that wonderful chompy noise similar to a paper shredder and oooh it was so gratifying. So I continued.

Note to self and/or any other lunatic woman who thinks dealing with rage means sabotaging her face: you should never, under any circumstances, tilt your chin down while trying to trim the bottom of your brows. Your EYELASHES live there.

So yeah, that paper shredder noise totally happened again. But this time, my brows remained in tact. My eyelashes?? Not so much.

The middle of my left eye now had eye lashes that resembled a "U" (but more like a U on an Etch-a-Sketch since no one really knows how to make curved lines on those things anyway.)

A slow and steady, "Sssshhhhhhhiiiiiiitttt," was murmured from my mouth as it fell agape while I stared in the mirror in horror. I slowly put down the buzzer and backed aways slowly.

"Okay, it's not so bad. Mascara can totally lengthen those stumpy middle lashes." ::Frantically coats left eye with blackest black mascara::

Instead I just have a limpy tarantula hanging over my eye... now what?!

I washed off the tarantula eye, put sunglasses on my face, mumbled to Husband that I need to go BACK to Target and got in the damn car. I found the big pack of fake lashes with 3 lengths to chose from. Oooh options! So I grabbed it up and got out of there as fast as I could and shoved my face back into the bathroom mirror when I got home. I did the whole open-your-mouth-as-wide-as-possible and poked my fingers at my eyes while holding these teeny bug-leg-looking lashes in my fat stumpy sausage fingers (Husband totally tells me I have sausage fingers and then totally tells the kittehs to nom on them. I now have a serious complex.) Thank God the Creator of the Fake Eyelashes also included teeny tweezers with the lashes because my sausagey fingers were way to giant to maneuver those things. After a few minutes, I successfully glued the shit out of those lashes onto my face. Thank God also that Fake Eyelash Creator included fake eyelash remover along with the super strong adhesive glue. Apparently Fake Eyelash Creator did not want that shit to fall off.

Needless to say, I've been wearing fake eyelashes for a good two weeks because my limpy-tarantula-excuse-for-eyelashes are not even trying to grow back with any kind of rapid speed so now I stick my face all in the mirror every morning trying to glue those little bug-legs to my eyelids.

All in the name of beauty, I suppose. Or at least in the name of I-don't-want-to-look-like-an-idiot.

Eyelash FAIL.

1 Response to "I Figured Out Why They Make Fake Eyelashes"

  1. Queen Amanda Says:

    OMG I <3 you so much!!! That one made me snort... (not that I would laugh at your pain/embarrassment/ anguish...um ya) : P