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Midlife Crisis, Day 64, Co-Captains Log...

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

Crow Bar Co-owner shares her growing insanity

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.

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