I’ve finally gotten some things up on the walls and elsewhere. I’ve decided to share pictures of some of my favorite spaces in my new digs. As you will see, I have pretty eclectic taste. I also love girly stuff too. My style is so bipolar. I really love me some funky signs, sugar skulls, Britain-themed anything, Steampunk-esque aquatic themes, and retro collectibles. Who says you can’t incorporate it all?!
Oh poop. Pewp. I’m such a 12 year-old boy…
Octopus are my favorite.
I think my shower curtain is my favorite thing ever.
I HAVE A CEILING FAN!
This is hard to see, but I finally have my coveted clear makeup organizer that just gets uber dusty. The price we pay.
I can’t stop admiring my new lace and fabric peach-colored flowers.
Sugar skulls and vintage globes.
I love this little guy.
All of my most prized possessions.
This is so I don’t forget where my kitchen is.
Errybody loves my hobo stew.
Because every skull lover has to have a skull-themed cookie jar. It’s a must!
Found this in all places-Elko. It’s one of my favorite possessions. It’s just so me.
An empty candy dish, because I can’t be trusted with a full dish of candy.
If you want to learn about who I am as a person, just check out my magnet collection.
Don’t judge. This is quite possibly the smallest, lamest bar in all the land. I had to do something fun with this retro telephone cart. Ain’t no one got time for landlines anymore. Also, I don’t drink much, but when I do, it’s likely to be a Moscow Mule (but, I’m out of vodka. And ginger beer. I’m the worst). Also, Fireball, because I’m classy like that.
I have a makeup table, but it’s not finished. In case you didn’t know, every single lady has to have a makeup table. I’ll share when it’s blinged out!
I hope you enjoyed the pics of my crazy, eclectic apartment.
Toodle-oo and ta-ta for now!
Tag: steampunk
Lipstick
He had one job. One. Before we entered the event, I made him promise that if my bright red lipstick went askew at any point, he had to tell me immediately. I’m not one to wear lipstick. Like ever. Any time I was insane enough to attempt lipstick, I always had a hard time not looking like I applied it in the dark, with my left hand, on drugs. I loved coloring as a child. I was an expert at staying in the lines. I don’t know what happened between childhood and adulthood, because applying lipstick is basically adult coloring, yet, I have a learning disability in this area of (woman) adulting. So, I use the shit out of nude lipgloss, instead.
Since becoming a loyal member of the Best-Day-of-the-Month-Makeup and Beauty product company, Ipsy, I have a pretty substantial collection of delicious lipsticks. They all terrify me with their bright, staining hues. I want to have a relationship with them, but I am too scared of getting hurt. I recently decided that enough was enough and it was time to become a real woman. I committed to adding lipstick to my Steampunk makeup look for an event at our local art museum.
I made the terrible mistake to go with a lipstick gloss. This one to be exact.
She’s a real beauty, but I will never, ever trust her again.
This was before the incident.
Let me try to paint the picture, lay the scene. We are working the crowd, strutting our stuff, showing off our hard work. Everyone is looking at us as we pass, it’s like I’m the Steampunk queen. I nod, every so often, humoring my lowly subjects. As I glide up the stairs, looking out over the entire room, I’m smiling my biggest smile at all of the gawking faces (that in hindsight, weren’t in awe of my costume, but my awesome makeup job).
Then…I go to the ladies room.
Fuck.
I want to throttle him. He had one fucking job.
I stand there, numb, astounded. How long have I looked this this? How long?
I don’t even know what to do. How do you remove blood-red lip stain? How do you go back in time so you can smack the lipstick out of your hand? How come the floor never opens up and swallows me whole?
Why the fuck me? Why me, every damn time?
My bright-red, look-at-me lipstick is now dying a slow painful death as it creeps down from the corners of my mouth, down the sides of my chin. I looked like a sad, demented clown. On meth.
How many people had I smiled at?! Like every damn person in the building is how fucking many.
This is the kind of shit that happens when I try to be sexy. Note to self: just give up. Oh, and NEVER trust a man to tell you when you look crazy. They don’t see food in teeth, boogers, or melting lipstick, but one stray hair on your chin and they’re human microscopes. I can’t even.
Here’s a video of the can-can dancers from that night, because I hope their frilly bottoms are all people remember, not the demented fool with IDGAF lipstick.
