The standard of my appearance is going downhill quicker than a fat kid in a shopping trolley. My makeup routine has gone from a very basic, 2 minute bit of slap, to being completely non existent. The thought of scraping out the tiny blob of congealed, slightly orangey remnants of
the bottle of foundation I've been meaning to replace for a fortnight, seems futile. Even if it did disguise my natural 'hint of magnolia' skin tone, I would need a bucket load to cover my vastly expanding face. Similarly, adding mascara to eyes that look like they belong to a raccoon, seems utterly pointless.
I haven't seen my hairbrush in some time. My hair is rebelliously growing to magnificent beast-like proportions.
Clothing is now for comfort, full stop. I would like to say I gave even a glimpse of consideration to fashion, practicality, or even modesty, but it would be a lie. If my baps weren't likely to dangle in the drip trays I'd happily forgo having to bother to do laundry, or get dressed in general.
My fried, sludgey mess of a brain has completely malfunctioned. Emotions are no longer felt 1st hand and are being put into storage, waiting to be processed. I think I am reasonably happy, or at least, I'm as happy as a zombified, crazy-haired, panda-esque, swiftly middle-aging woman can be. Maybe having had no routine whatsoever for nearly 5 months now, my brain has gone feral. Skipped off into the sunset with my sanity and tolerance, leaving just a neurotic, sweary mess in its wake .
Perhaps gin is the answer. I will investigate.