Day Five

It’s gonna be a late night.

I didn’t get home until midnight (fifteen minutes ago by my clock) and it’s been a busy 24 hours. Or thirty, something like that. Since I left for work at 845am Friday morning, I’ve been home long enough to sleep. Just another one of those weekends. The boys need haircuts tomorrow, I need to pay a couple bills and hit the grocery store for some household staples, then my ass will be home. Y’all know I hate to be away from home so much.

So, what have I been doing?

Some randomness. I hit a couple auctions. I have been to one other in my life, for like half an hour some ten years ago. I was bored last night and grandma was with Matt’s dad at one, and invited me to join them. I mean what the hell. Why not? An experience to add to my brain so maybe if I ever need to write about an auction I can without doing research. I tell you what, both auctioneers had some of the dirtiest, funniest things to say though. I was shocked and greatly amused. 

It’s after midnight though and I’m tired as fuck. I’m here to write about my Day Five black and white/grateful post so I can pass out and be awesome again tomorrow.


I couldn’t sleep last night, so I actually didn’t drag myself out of bed until after 9am. And sleeping that late messes with my head, throws me off for some reason. So at 11am I was still preparing for my day. I had plans to visit my aunt and hit up this other auction with grandma and baby daddy #1. Like I was telling grandma tonight. Matt’s dad (her son, for the record, in case there is any confusion) and I weren’t successful at making a relationship work, and he by far isn’t my favorite person in the world. Enough time has passed however between the bitterness and ugliness that surrounded our relationship and break up to where we get along with each other and can take each other in small doses. Time does heal some wounds, or at the very least covers them with enough scar tissue to be able to almost forget about the existence of the wound at times. So, I did spend a good amount of the last 30 hours with my son’s father, and had a decent time. But I’ll be content if I don’t have to see him again for awhile, haha. 

Anyway I got off topic again. This is what happens when I write tired. 

Day Five. Picture of my makeup bag. 

Makeup is a complicated topic for women. They get shit for wearing it, how they wear it, if they don’t wear it. . . Makeup is a losing fucking battle.

And I stopped giving a fuck years ago about what other thought of my use of it.

Number one, it isn’t your fucking face, so shut the fuck up if you don’t like my make up or lack thereof.

I wear make up for me. I don’t wear make up to attract anyone, or make anyone think I’m prettier than I am. It takes me five minutes to apply my makeup every day. I do it because to me, it’s a way if expressing myself. 

And yes, I do also use makeup to cover some things and enhance some others. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t.  I’m not a huge fan of my complexion. I’m Irish and Mexican and my skin tone is kinda like “what the fuck?” I have a lot of pink going on, and freckles, and sometimes my skin forgets I’m in my thirties and pops up with a random zit. Or 12. Not to mention the dark circles that come with Motherhood. On the other hand, I have awesome cheekbones and pretty eyes. So I tone down my crazy skin and play up my eyes. But I’m not opposed to going out without makeup though, either. Makeup is more like an accessory to me. Sometimes you wear a necklace or bracelet, sometimes you don’t. But the key here is that I don’t do it for others. I do it for me. 

My dad hated makeup, and didn’t want me to wear it. I’ve been told time and again by guys I’ve dated “you don’t need makeup.” I had one guy tell me when we started dating “every time we go out, you look like a movie star” – I was young and believed his bullshit. Because then when we were having an argument he said that I look like a bitch when I wear makeup. I had a girl I worked with give me shit about the color eyeshadow I chose to wear. I’ve been asked why my eyeshadow matches my shirt, or why in the world I’d wear bold or bright colors. . . 

I used to wear makeup depending on who I was around. I used it to make others happy with me. Either wearing it or not depending on what they thought of it. 

Man, fuck that. Fuck all of that. 

Today I am grateful to be an individual, and that I have gotten past caring what others think of me. I’m using make up as the prime example here, but this is a story about my whole life. I am, and always have been, different. I think and feel too much, and I talk too much about those thoughts and feelings. I like to learn new things and experience new things and read and write. I like bright colors some days and others I look like I should be at a funeral. Some days I want to crawl into a cave and others I want to be surrounded by people. I’m not typical and I’m not predictable. And finally, I’m okay with that. I have my self conscious days, or days when I doubt myself – who doesn’t? But mostly my give a fuck about people’s opinions of me is gone. And it’s so goddamn nice. I don’t fit inside your box. Sorry, not sorry. So if my make up makes me look like a bitch, or makes people think I’m rich or famous, or depressed or a clown.  . . Too bright, too dark, not enough, too much. . . Fuck ’em. I am me, and I wasn’t put on this earth to please you or your idea of acceptable or suitable. 

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