The moonlight up here in the region of my secluded mountain retreat is out of control right now. Everything’s all bright and blue-tinged. It’s both romantic and eerie, which is my very favorite combination, so I’m tickled.
Two show day, and my skin is throwing a bona-fide makeup-instigated fit. We’ve gotten to the point in the run where it no longer knows what the hell I want from it, and has decided to respond by being all of the things, all of the time. Oily and dry! Uncomfortably tight and alarmingly large-pored! Right now it’s itching like it’s been colonized by fire ants underneath this two-foot layer of powder laying atop it. It’s a treat, let me tell you.
I literally get angry when I think how much I’ve spent on makeup this year. Sephora put me in their Very Important Buyer club, which only happens when you drop an amount equivalent to a downpayment on a house, pretty much. And it was more or less all from buying foundations/powders, because apparently my skin is too high-class for any of the drugstore crap, which always looks horrific and either breaks me out or inflames me to the level of a third-degree sunburn. Man, I miss Max Factor’s pancake makeup so much. That stuff was the best. Heavy coverage, not oily, no extra lotions or sunblocks or other extraneous junk. Now I can’t find it anywhere; at least not in my shade, which is somewhere between “cadaver” and “Stay Puft Marshmallow Man”. UGH, MY LIFE IS THE HARDEST.
Anyway. Better publish this crap now so I make it in under the deadline.
Oh! After the show today, I took a picture with three little girls at the stage-door, and one of them told me I was her favorite character. Y’know, a lot of people say they do this for love of the craft or the excitement of the process or whatever, but me? I’m just gonna straight-up admit that — in this show, at the very least — all I want is for kids to think I’m cool, the way I used to think the performers I saw were cool when I was little. Not sorry ’bout it. Not one bit.