You know…vanity will get you in trouble, every time.

I went in late on Friday after working some monster hours for the past two weeks while a coworker was on vacation. I’ve been taking work home and not sleeping so to say I’m burned out, is putting it mildly. I decided to stop and get my eyebrows waxed, something that always makes me feel better.

I have a favorite lady. She always wants me to schedule an appointment but I’m too busy and stood her up the last time she made me schedule one. I paid her anyway, and she was happy to fit me in today. I’m a good tipper, and this is when it really pays off. 

Or not. 

She was chatting with another stylist when I heard her say to me:

L- Oh. I’m going to have to go a little higher on that one. The left one is perfect.

I’m assuming she means my right eyebrow, because she goes to town on the left. More chatting about the potential YMCA going in. Hot molten lava wax, baking my freshly waxed skin to a crisp. Ouch.

Nothing beats having someone pluck your poor burned eyelids. I told her they looked great to me, and saw her frown. 

L- Are you allergic to aloe vera? 

J- No?

The icy cold smack in the eye provided minor relief with significant burning. I would say that I’d never miss another appointment with her again, but I’m thinking this should be my last. 

This morning has me looking on the bright side. I’d laugh a little easier if it didn’t hurt so badly. There’s a HUGE silver lining though. I don’t have to worry about getting caught checking anyone out.

Because I’m in a constant state of surprise with a side of chemical burns. 

I should have left well enough, alone. 

I don’t understand the drawn on bushy brows. I don’t get it. In fact when I see a girl with them, it’s all I can look at. Y’all look ridiculous. That goes double for the drawn on pencil line. What the actual fuck. Eyebrows don’t grow like that. Don’t do that. No matter how pretty a girl is, if she has magic marker line brows, she looks crazy.

I get half of mine ripped off, so I’m sure there are plenty of you shaking your heads at me, too. Especially this morning, when I look a whole new shade of crazy. 

Word to the wise: don’t piss off your waxer. 

How are you, REALLY.


How in the world do I let myself get talked into this shit. Of all days, when I’m not feeling fantastic… along comes a big old opportunity to be honest. Which is kind of my favorite drug. So few people are honest anymore, that I relish being described as being painfully so.

I joined the #terriblewritingclub because I am completely in love with the podcast. 

The question for today is: HOW ARE YOU, REALLY?????

How am I?

It’s a funny thing to consider answering that, honestly. So I’m going to.

I’m writing a victim impact statement for my rapists release from prison. How’s your day going?

In the midst of smiling pretty and playing nice, I’ve been rehashing horror and reconciling some of my hang-ups in how they relate to being violated. I love rough sex. It only gets difficult to admit when people attribute it to my being raped.

It isn’t fair to steal my vices because he stole my innocence and I shouldn’t have to apologize for being healthy in spite of being handed every reason not to be. I shouldn’t have to feel guilt in any sexual moment because he stole those moments from me.

Every single syllable is being picked apart and I’m ready to throw in the towel and refuse to participate. I want to wear a Burka. I don’t want to see him and I don’t want him to ever get to see pain on my face, again. I haven’t seen him in over a decade and I don’t want him to be able to recognize me. Part of it is always the fear that he’ll come find me again.

Part of me will forever be carrying that poor, broken 15 year old girl.

I’m waking up to anxiety attacks and the temptation to sign up for shooting lessons. Re-reading the notice that he has family in the area and will be free to visit them. Shopping for Bullmastiffs and a gate for my driveway in the hopes of refusing to be afraid.

So I don’t know if I’m going to finish it or not, because I’ve spent enough years on one horrific week and it’s taking a toll on me.

I think if I had to describe how I am though? I’d say… healthy. I communicate well. I always choose kindness, first. I’m a blessing in the lives of the people I love, including my own. I’m definitely running low on faith these days. I don’t believe in anything much anymore, beyond what I’m personally capable of delivering.

Which is probably why I’m still plugging away at this godforsaken letter…