Monthly Archives: June 2013

Seriously, Enough With The Packing Tape Already


Just two months in from our last great move, The Fiance and I have already found ourselves relocating again.  Sadly, it wasn’t because we have our own place now, or because we’ve snagged those jobs we’ve been desperately trying to find, but hey, this new place is cheaper, quieter, and closer to the bubble tea that is now ruling my life.

I hate moving.  I have lost track of how many different places I’ve lived in throughout my life, but I know it’s enough to rival most of my military brat friends.  Now that we’ve moved twice in two months, I’m hoping that Murphy’s Law will kick in and my phone will ring a week later saying “Hi, this is Blizzard, our bodies are ready” and we’ll find ourselves going for number three.  It would be a welcome inconvenience at this point, because despite the local massage parlor claiming to be “upscale and discreet” I’d really like to avoid giving handies to strangers.  I’m 99% sure it doesn’t look good on a professional resume for game design anyway.

That being said, we’ve settled in pretty decently, gaining a +10 square feet to living space and a +2 to privacy for the maritals.  We should be finishing the kitchen set-up tomorrow, meaning that we can actually have home-cooked meals again instead of living on the fast food that is absolutely murdering the shit out of my aging stomach (poop joke somewhat intended).  Also, I now actually have a farting balcony.

The cats' litter box is out here, too, which means NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW.

The cats’ litter box is out here, too, which means NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW.

Because writing is currently standing between me and getting to level 54 in RIFT, have another helping of moving-related anecdotes in lieu of a real article.

The Unicorn Deception

Ever since we began dating, I have been trying to convince The Fiance that girls don’t poop.  I’ve explained to him that all women (and some gay guys) are sacred keepers of the unicorns, and when we’re in the bathroom for an extended period of time it’s because we’ve used the portal to Narnia that appears to us under our bathroom sink to feed these majestic creatures.  He seems skeptical for some reason, no matter how many stuffed unicorns I put under the sink for him to discover or how well I imitate their hoofbeats by smacking together two half-empty bottles of body wash while I am secretly destroying the toilet in ways that would make even the most bro-ful of frat boys jealous.  Our new bathroom has enough space in it to actually hang up some artwork, so after ruling out a velvet painting of Richard Dean Anderson due to expense, I’ve decided to go with a bitchin’ unicorn poster from the 80s in a pink frame in the hopes that it will resonate with him on a subconscious level and therefore help my case.

The Fiance Knows What He’s Doing

Before we actually got into the new place, The Fiance and I disassembled our IKEA-purchased bed frame to make it easier for the movers to carry it up to the second-floor apartment.  When the time to reassemble it in Apartment Remix (which I have never used to refer to the new apartment until now, and I think I’m going to try and make it a thing) came, the instructions I had kept for just such an emergency were nowhere to be found.  I suggested looking for a PDF of it on the website, but The Fiance was adamant that he didn’t need such efforts.  “I know what I’m doing,” he argued as he lifted the foot board, causing all of the pegs and screws he’d just placed so carefully to clatter onto the floor.  Beat.  “I don’t want to hear it.”

(The bed has not yet collapsed on us, so I’m assuming he did it properly.)

My Computer Chair Is Possessed (Or Possibly Just Broken)

Ever since the move, my computer chair has been making random loud hissing noises.  Today I got up to switch around the laundry and the thing ratcheted itself up to the highest position; The Fiance noticed this and the accompanying demonic sounds and decided to help me out by lowering it back down.  It slammed down as low as it would go, then started gushing oil all over the carpet.  Domestic side note: dish soap applied immediately to oil or grease stains on carpet will bring that shit right out as if nothing had ever happened.  Since the exorcism, the chair has been silent, but it is now stuck all the way down.  I blame all 57 of my viewings of The Omen — the good version, not the crappy one with Julia Stiles.

I Have 48 Pairs Of Shoes

There’s no witty story to accompany this.  It’s a sickness, I swear.

No More Asshole Neighbors

Three weeks before we left the old apartment, we got new upstairs neighbors.  They seemed like a nice enough family — husband, wife, two little kids and a baby — but proved to be the neighbors from Hell.  Their baby screamed every second of the day, causing the father to add in his own screams of “Dammit, take care of the kid!” or “Shut the Hell up!”  The eldest child, a girl who couldn’t be any more than six years old, made it her personal mission to punch our bird feeder every time she passed our door.  I think the middle child was a boy.  I never can tell with kids until they’re like 10 or something because I have the maternal instincts of a hamster, but regardless of what lay within that proverbial tackle box, said middle child enjoyed playing a game of “open our door and walk right on in and start messing with our stuff because the parents are standing like five feet away and too involved in fighting with each other to pay attention to their children.”  Every day, from 7 a.m. to around midnight, it sounded like a herd of elephants was running from one end of their apartment to the other.  The constant pounding was so severe it actually caused our furniture to vibrate and pictures on the wall to tilt.  It frayed all of our nerves to the point of causing fights, isolation, and an overwhelming desire to punch a toddler in the face.  We put the last box in our car to a soundtrack of the kids screaming, the parents fighting, and what I can only guess was a re-enactment of this year’s WrestleMania matches thumping through the ceiling.  There is none of that shit here, only dogs.  Dogs are way cuter and less irritating than children.

Bubble Tea And Curry Will Be My Undoing

I’m pretty adventurous with food.  I don’t know if I have enough expertise to consider myself a “foodie,” but as the size of my ass will attest, I love to eat.  I’ll try just about any dish, because hey, for all I know chocolate-covered ants are the most delicious thing on the face of the earth.  Except they aren’t, because that distinction is reserved for bubble tea.  I’d never had the opportunity to try it until my stepfather and one of his work buddies took me out to dinner for my birthday.  It’s like drinking tea and eating gummy bears all at once and I LOVE IT.  I’ve also been introduced to Japanese curry, which has yet to be spicy enough for my tastes (a few years back, a Lebanese restaurant owner made me a dish using peppers imported from his homeland that were so freaking spicy nothing compares anymore — seriously, I can drink ghost pepper sauce without feeling anything) but is still amazing.  The problem is that I had my first experience with these two delicious foodstuffs on the same night and now they are inextricably linked.  I cannot have Japanese curry without following it up with bubble tea, and… okay, to be honest, it’s a one-way link because I will drink bubble tea any time I can get it, and when I don’t have any, I’m probably imagining that I’m drinking it.  I haven’t been this excited about a beverage since Ecto-Cooler.

I Have An Etsy Store Now

The only thing I love more than writing is crafting.  Since finding myself devoid of employment, I’ve started up an Etsy shop where I sell nerdy accessories, mostly Blizzard game-themed, to try and make ends meet.  I’ll be adding more stuff soon, but anyone curious can check out Epic Lootz.


Pompous Ass And Circumstances


Since moving back to Southern California after a long absence, I’ve been looking for a job — obviously, Blizzard is my ultimate goal (and what brought me out here in the first place), but since getting onto Team Awesome there takes time, I’ve just been attempting to find something to pay the bills in the meantime.  It’s not going well.

Florida had no opportunities for me whatsoever.  The unemployment rate in my city was at least 13%, with most people fortunate enough to find jobs having to drive 30 to 45 minutes to the next major city in order to find work that didn’t involve standing on a street corner in very high heels.  Before the move, I did some research on what the general job market was like in Irvine and the surrounding areas, and everything I found was incredibly positive.  It seemed like every single business in the county was hiring.  I figured it’d only be a few weeks until The Fiance and I found work to tide us over until those fabled callbacks from Blizzard once we flooded the city with our applications.

It’s been two months, and not a peep.  Our bank accounts are rapidly approaching the red, to the point that we’re unsure how we’re going to both be able to keep our cell phones — troublesome, since we don’t have a landline or a home of our own to get one so that jobs can call us back — and pay for our car insurance.  Honestly, it’s been a pretty huge source of depression for me.  After a while of not even being able to land a crappy retail  job, you start thinking “what’s wrong with me?” and wondering if maybe you’re so unemployable that you’re never going to be able to find work again.  You begin to question your talents and why people are continuing to cheer you on and tell you “hang in there, you can do it, you’re good enough to make it!” when results indicating such a thing have been less than forthcoming.

You start to wonder if maybe it’d be better off for everyone else around you if you just went out for a walk along the beach and never came home, and think that if you do it just right they’d never find your body and in a few months to a year when the police label you “probably dead” then at least they could collect on your life insurance money and live comfortably for a while, because if it weren’t for you and your stupid dreams in the first place you wouldn’t have ruined their lives in pursuit.

The thing with living in a rich area like Irvine, where the average household income is at least double what my parents made combined while I was growing up, is that you start feeling inadequate and trashy really quickly.  The friends I’ve made out here think that The Cheesecake Factory is a cheap option for lunch.  I got sideswiped with it a few weeks ago when they suggested it, and despite my frantic efforts to try and sway public vote to at least Red Robin (still out of my price range at this point, but the clear lesser of two financial evils), I found myself choking down the cheapest appetizer I could find at a restaurant that, to be quite honest, is in the Top Five Fanciest Places My Poverty-Stricken Ass Has Ever Been In and, in fact, rejected my application a couple of weeks prior because according to them I didn’t have enough experience working specifically in higher-end establishments like theirs.  It’s kind of uncomfortable to sit there and eat in a location that doesn’t even consider you worthy of cleaning their bathrooms.  I was too embarrassed to ask one of them to spot me for the meal.  I don’t know that they really understand the desperate financial status I’m in right now, and I’m so ashamed of it that despite wanting to break down and cry on their shoulders about how everything is falling apart and you’re too poor to stay here but too poor to move anywhere else so your best bet for housing is rapidly becoming “under an overpass on the 405” I can’t bring myself to say anything.

But I’m still breathing, and that means I have no excuse to give up, so I’m making it through the day simply by refusing to acknowledge that the future even exists and convincing myself that surviving today is all I have to worry about.  I’m still searching for jobs, any jobs that will accommodate the improved-but-still-severe pain I’m dealing with as a reminder of my adventures with Lamictal (many retail establishments will not even hire someone who can’t stand for a full eight-hour shift, and the ones who will have sadly not returned my calls).

Now here’s another little complication I’ve found in my job hunt: I never completed college.

Every single person I’ve spoken to in the game industry agrees that no, you do not necessarily need a college degree to be a game designer, which is great news for me.  What is not so great is the fact that it seems like every other job out there says otherwise.

Just a week or two ago a friend of mine linked me to a job posting for a clothing company — whose name I shall not mention here — looking for a customer service representative.  I’ve got plenty of customer service experience from my past, including some dealing specifically with fashion, and it’s a desk job, which means I could easily work long shifts since I’d be sitting down.  It seemed like an answer to my screams until I got to this one teensy little line:

“College students preferred.  We want hard workers!”

Cue the tape-squealing sound and zoom in on my most terrifying Angry Stare.

I know plenty of people who went to college and did work their butts off for their degree.  I also know many who went to college and did nothing but party, graduating by the skin of their teeth and then proceeding to basically crumple up said degree and say “meh, I’m just gonna have my parents pay for everything.”  Then I know a huge pile of people who didn’t go to college, but work harder and better than anyone else I’ve ever met because oh, that’s right, your education does not dictate your work ethic or what kind of person you are.  Sure, it can dictate whether or not you know stuff vital to the job, like if you’re trying to apply to the FBI’s bomb squad without having gone through a few years of Explosion Science or whatever course you’d have to take for that.

But this?  This is a customer service job.  In a phone bank.  Where your main responsibilities are to show up to work sober and not be a dick to the people on the phones.

I applied anyway, with a very cheerful-yet-still-professional cover letter attached, on the off-chance that someone in their HR department actually has a soul.  What I really wanted to write to them, however, was something like this:

To Whom It May Concern,

I am contacting you in regards to your customer service position advertised on [website].  I have extensive experience in an office setting and working with the public.  I can type 102 words per minute, am extremely proficient with computers, and have been known at all of my prior jobs as a hard worker who takes direction easily, but isn’t afraid to show initiative.

I never finished college, which I understand is a problem for you, as you apparently need to see a $20,000 piece of paper to know that I would actually be a benefit to your team.  My sincerest of apologies for this lack of foresight on my part,  but I was too busy graduating high school at age 16 with a 3.75 GPA and dual-enrolled at the local college in English Comp 101 while working two jobs under the table to make sure that my mother and I weren’t homeless (which we pretty much were for a few weeks before we found the room to rent in a drafty house with no heat that cost exactly all of my paychecks per month but was still better than sleeping at a bus stop).  From there, my time was occupied by having to work in order to not starve to death on the streets, and once I finally did have an opportunity to go to college, I was told by my boyfriend at the time that it was either him or my education, and I chose education, although sadly this meant moving three hours away from the college I’d been accepted to because they didn’t offer student housing and I’d been too busy working 24-hour shifts for his business that was the only thing keeping us afloat (although we still went for days without water or electricity because he was focused more on other things than not running it into the ground) to hold down any kind of other work that would allow me to put money away.  At that point I became locked into the “hand to mouth” cycle that so many of us down here in the lower class find ourselves unable to escape until the day we die, but if we’re lucky, our overworked corpses will drop right on the poverty line instead of below it, where we’ve spent the majority of our miserable lives dreaming of just 1/10th of the privilege afforded to you.

I would have continued my education after that point, as well, but by then I had to work a job that, in conjunction with side effects of vital medication I was taking at the time, left me crippled to the point of collapsing in my driveway and having to be carried into my house because the pain was so bad my body would not even let me just power through it.  This was after the job that I worked for minimal pay, under borderline illegal conditions, and had 100% perfect attendance because we were told that if we called in sick for any reason we would be terminated immediately.

And I did it all with a smile.

Again, my sincerest apologies for not living up to your lofty yet admirable standards, but I hope to hear from you soon so that we may set up an interview.

I would kill to be able to go to college right now, even though it’s not technically required for my chosen field.  I’d take a course in programming, something that I’m having to teach myself using my stepfather’s old reference books and some free online tutorials, because the catch-22 is that while I’m unemployed now and thus have all the time in the world, I don’t have the money to pay for them, and the grants I’ve applied for have kicked back my applications as what I believe translates from legalese to English as “there is no way somebody can be this unbelievably destitute and also you’re kind of old now, what about taking out a student loan with a 376987635987625987625% interest rate to ensure that you never make it out of the hole you’re in?”  Every time I hear somebody complaining about how they had to drop a class because it was too hard or they didn’t want to get up that early or the other kids were mean to them, I want to grab them by the shirt collar and drag them into my shoes for a week.  I want to scream “I WILL TAKE YOUR SHITTY CLASS AND DO ALL OF THE WORK PLUS THE EXTRA CREDIT AND ALLOW YOU TO HORRIBLY DEBASE ME, FILM IT, AND PUT IT ON THE INTERNET, JUST FOR THE CHANCE TO BETTER MY LIFE.”

Then again, maybe I just don’t work hard enough.

La Marsellaise Pour Une Lapine


By now, if you’re a regular reader (assuming I have any), you’ve probably noticed a few changes around here.  Some post titles have been tweaked, names have been changed, and in general, I have become a Socially Acceptable Bunny.

A shitstorm occurred surrounding my Old Handle That Shall Not Be Named.  The confusion apparently stemmed from my use of a word which in French is innocuous, but in English is considered to be a slur.  Despite accusations made to the contrary, oui, je parle français.  I love France.  I adore the food, the films, the language, the music, the history, and Gaspard Ulliel’s butt.  Family legend states that we started off as descendants of French kings, but years ago somebody put their baguette in someone else’s basket and we got votekicked out of the country, landing in the Mediterranean where we noticed smokin’ hot tan chicks with big butts and proceeded to hump the bouillabaise straight out of the bloodline over the next several centuries.  Though we’re so far removed by now from our origins that we no longer qualify as French, I still have always felt an affinity for the language which is what led to me eschewing the study of Spanish in its favor, a decision that is admittedly questionable given the fact that I’ve spent most of my life in either California or Florida.  I was fluent in French at one point, although years of non-use has chipped away at my vocabulary.  Though I could probably still make my way through a vacation in Versailles without any trouble, it definitely doesn’t come as easily as it used to, and that is why you see me conducting all of my business in English.  (I can still read it easily, though, even if I can’t always remember exactly how to respond.)

tl;dr – Gaspard Ulliel’s butt.

Allô, chéri.

Allô, chéri.

I’m not going to go into much more detail about the events of recent history leading up to the name change, because my goal here is not to get sympathy or rally anyone to a “cause.”  I am, however, pointing everyone towards some updated links.  This blog’s address is now  My Twitter has been changed to @overlord_bunny as well, and other information, like my BattleTag and Tumblr, can be found on my About page.

After all, what’s in a name?  A rose, by any other name, would be Billie Piper.

Looking Fabulous, The Overlord Bunny Way!


In what is undoubtedly a very unique turn of events, I have been dealing with my own wedding crap as well as helping my mother plan hers, an activity which basically amounts to me zoning out when she starts talking about crap like venues and caterers and helping her pick a dress.

I’m always amused when people come to me for fashion advice, especially if it involves hair or makeup, simply because I am bad at it.  I have one default style (brightly-colored synthetic hair, nerd T-shirts, and combat boots) and one alternate costume (which I like to call “cleavage classy”), and that’s it.

I am a grown-ass woman with a cat-ear hoodie.  Are you really that sure of my beauty credentials?

I am a grown-ass woman with a cat-ear hoodie. Are you really that sure of my beauty credentials?

The whole concept of layering T-shirts and tanktops is too complicated for me.  I tried imitating a cute, trendy outfit I saw on Tumblr once and when I proudly strode into the room after two hours of meticulous preparation, everyone just stared at me in horror and asked “what the fuck are you wearing?”  I don’t use expensive makeup or hair products.  If I can wrangle my hair into a ponytail without serious injury, I consider it a good day.  I didn’t cut or style my hair for three years because I didn’t know that was a thing you were supposed to do.  And yet, more often than not, friends and family will end up asking me what color palette they should be using for their eyeshadow or if they should go with an A-line or fishtail skirt without catching onto the fact that I’m surreptitiously Googling the answers on my phone while I talk to them.

Then again, I did pick up a few nifty tricks and tips during my brief time as a model — yeah, not Instagram, I mean the kind with a portfolio and professional photographers and one runway show for some indie designers — but probably not ones you’d expect to hear.


Too often I see girls freaking out over whether or not they should buy a pair of jeans that they really like because they’re not sure if they’ll look good with their “body type.”  I’ve also seen plenty of ad campaigns for gyms and diets promising that in just a few short weeks, you’ll have this “bikini body” thing.  That’s great, I guess, if you want to do it the hard way, but here’s a tried and true method to getting a beach-ready bikini body:

  1. Buy a bikini you like
  2. Put it on your body
  3. Go to the beach

Look, I know there’s a lot of pressure to dress in ways that won’t offend the delicate sensibilities of dudebros who think that every woman out there needs to be a perfect clone of Megan Fox, but what is the worst thing that’s going to happen if you instead pick out something you actually think is cute versus what some mass-marketed size chart intended to make you feel insecure about yourself tells you to wear?  Somebody might make a snide comment?  My chubby ass has gone to the beach in a bikini a couple of times.  Not one person stared or whispered or snickered, because frankly, the only people who would put forth the extra effort to do so are those whose lives are so empty that their day is incomplete unless they make somebody feel bad.  Add a few extra “sad and pitiable” points to adults who stoop to such high-school tactics.

I was scared, too, the first time I “rocked” the bikini.  It was one of the standard “fat girl” suits, with the skirted, granny-waisted bottom to hide my supposed imperfections, because that’s what the catalog told me I should be wearing.  Mistakenly, I believed that it would solve all of my confidence problems and that somehow nobody would catch on to the fact that I was overweight.  It was my very own perception filter!  According to the model in the photos, I’d instantly look like I weighed 50 pounds less!

Yeah.  That bikini looked worse on me than the super-sexy Victoria’s Secret one I ended up buying the following year — you know, the one that showed off my stomach and hips and thighs.  The stares I got were of the “daaaaaaaamn” variety rather than the “lulz.”  How is this possible, you may ask?  Simple: I felt confident.  I walked across the sand like the queen of the goddamned beach, head held high, not ruining my fun day of surf and sun by fretting over whether my stretch marks were covered.

The number one rule of fashion, at least in my book, is that if you like it, if you feel comfortable in it, BUY IT.  Don’t put it back with a heavy sigh because it’s the “wrong cut” for you.  Do you think it looks good?  Snatch it up immediately.  If you love it, you’re going to shine in it from the inside out.


From a technical standpoint, I have no idea what the Hell I’m doing with a makeup brush.  There’s apparently all different ones for all different things, and foundation is different from pressed powder and then there’s concealer and I guess that’s something else and if having a vagina is supposed to be a free pass to being a prodigy with cosmetics, then mine is broken and needs to be exchanged at the Vagina Store.  My mother is equally clueless and thus was never able to hand down any lessons to me, beyond “This is lipstick.  It goes on your lips.”

I tend to wear fairly untraditional makeup.  I apply black eyeliner liberally in a cat’s-eye shape, sometimes add eyeshadow if I’m going all-out, and my typical lipstick choice is vintage pinup red (black, if I’m going to a club).  A lot of people give me grief about it.  “Why are you wearing so much eye makeup?”  “You can’t wear that much eyeshadow during the day!”

I can, and I do.  Bitches.

I can, and I do. Bitches.

My choice to wear lots of eyeliner impacts exactly zero people other than myself (although with the amount of black eyeliner I have purchased since high school I’m pretty sure I’ve kept several factories in business on my own).  Other people’s choice to wear no eyeliner impacts exactly zero people other than themselves.  I think we all forget sometimes that makeup is an option, not a requirement.  I used to be guilty of the same thought process, refusing to leave my house without it, even if it was to just run to the grocery store and pick up a gallon of milk.  Being forced to live below the poverty line is what changed my ways.  Even the cheap makeup that I use — more on that in a minute — was an extravagance I just couldn’t afford to replace on my budget.  It wasn’t feasible to buy a new tube of lipstick every month.

At first I was miserable.  I was sure that cashiers would mistake me for a man.  I would apologize to friends when I showed up to an outing with no makeup for my “pig-face,” which was apparently only visible to me.  Then I realized that I was the only one who cared.  I got to sleep twenty minutes later every morning.  I could drink my morning cup of tea whenever I damn well pleased without having to worry about reapplying my lipstick.  I no longer felt like I had to somehow look better than everyone around me or else… well, I don’t even know what I thought would happen, maybe that Publisher’s Clearing House would show up at my door with a mariachi band and glitter and just yell “YOU’RE PRETTY” through a megaphone at me for an hour?

Also, no one ever mistook me for a dude, but I did get handed a few children’s menus by mistake.

For those of you who do enjoy wearing makeup, there’s a few items I keep in my bathroom cabinet that I absolutely can’t live without — and surprise, they’re all cheap.  These are all personal recommendations only; I am getting no money from these companies to talk about how awesome their products are, but if they’d like to give me some anyway, let’s talk.

  • Mascara: CoverGirl Lash Blast. As far as cheap mascara goes, this stuff is the bomb.  It’s not clumpy, it’s got a good brush, and it gives me dolly eyes with minimal effort.  It makes my eyes pop enough that I don’t even need to put on eyeliner with it!
  • Lipstick: CoverGirl Outlast.  They’ve got it in just about every available shade, and it really does last all day, as long as you’re not a compulsive lip-chewer.  They’ve also recently started selling the sealant coat thingie separately, which is awesome, because I always run out of that before the actual lip color.
  • Eyeliner: Revlon ColorStay or CoverGirl Perfect Point Plus.  I hate liquid eyeliner, and the regular pencils that you have to sharpen inevitably end up with one sharp piece of wood that you never notice until you’re dragging it across your waterline and screaming.  These are the self-sharpening crayon kind, and though liquid is supposedly better for doing cat’s eye makeup, I manage pretty well with them.  ColorStay is supposed to last all day, and it does, much to my chagrin — getting it off at the end of the evening is an adventure without makeup remover.  The Perfect Point Plus isn’t really meant to be long-lasting, but it does pretty well before I have to touch up smudges and actually comes with a blending/smudge stick at the end so that if you want to do smoky eyes, you can.
  • Face Crap: I’m using this Revlon PhotoReady foundation stuff for special events, but honestly, I’m usually too lazy to put it on.  It’s supposed to reflect the light from camera flashes in such a way that it gives you an airbrushed look, and it works pretty well in that respect.  I still prefer pressed powder because it’s easier to apply, and really, the only thing I want to do with it is even out my complexion a bit (damned rosy cheeks) and not look shiny in low-resolution cell phone pictures.  For that, I usually stick to the tried-and-true CoverGirl Fresh Look line.  Victoria’s Secret used to make this amazing foundation/concealer/powder blend that you applied with a little triangle sponge, but a quick browse of their website shows that they’re no longer making it.  Also, the Sephora brand powder, if you have a little extra money to spend?  INCREDIBLE.
  • Eyeshadow: MAC and Urban Decay are my favorites just because of how “bam!” their colors are, but it’s eyeshadow.  If I see a color I like, I buy it.

If you need waterproof makeup for any reason, I have tested the entire Makeup Forever line from Sephora doing underwater ballet and mermaid performance.  It does not run.  It just doesn’t.  It’s a little more expensive, but if you’re a performer who’d need that much staying power, it’s well worth it.

When you’re ready to scrape all of it off of your face at the end of the day, Target sells this eye makeup remover from the Botanics line that is… the most amazing thing ever.  Apply just a little bit to a round cotton makeup pad and swipe.  It will cut through even the Gothiest of eye makeup with no smudging, and if it gets into your eye, it doesn’t burn (please don’t pour it directly into your eyes, that is bad in other ways).  It also moisturizes the skin.  Best six bucks I ever spent.

The important thing to remember is to have fun with makeup.  It’s like art for your face.  If you’re looking to experiment with a specific color and don’t want to commit to paying full price, there’s always the cheap NYC brand that’s available at most major stores for like 99 cents.  It’s decent enough to give you an idea of whether or not you love it.


I don’t know.  Wear a hat or throw some barrettes in it or something.  Seriously, I wasn’t kidding about the ponytail thing.

Protip: Never, ever try to cut your own bangs, unless you are absolutely confident in your abilities as a hairdresser.  It doesn’t end well otherwise.

The General Theme

Confidence in yourself will make you way sexier and attractive than any man-made concoction ever could.  It’s easier said than done, I know, but with a little bit of practice, you’ll learn to tune out those voices that say “But–!  But–!”  I work hard to make progress with my own self-confidence every day.  I’ve even adopted my very own sassy mantra for when I’m feeling particularly down about my appearance; I look at myself in the mirror and say “bitch, I am FLAWLESS,” complete with hair flip, and repeat until I feel like sashaying.

We’re all our own worst critics, and the hardest thing to do is find the beauty in ourselves, but I bet if we can overcome that hurdle, seeing the beauty in everyone else will become like second nature and maybe we’ll be able to overcome the stupid idea that we’re all supposed to look a certain way.