I then attempted to document this event. Equally tragic. After failing to capture my strange foot-in-extremely-high-possé/hand-on-hip reflection in the mirror, I settled on the crap you see below. Y'all... it is hard to photograph your hand, foot, and outfit at the same time. Equally hard- photographing my hands at all, because damn if they aren't the least attractive part of my body. Self-consciousness be damned..
[yes, I'm aware that these are all really flattering photos. thanks!]
On Friday of last week I accidentally wore a dress that matched my finger and toenail polish. Which also means I wore purple and black two days in a row.
Please note that the dress in question does not actually look like an exploded octopus.
On Friday of last week I accidentally wore a dress that matched my finger and toenail polish. Which also means I wore purple and black two days in a row.
Please note that the dress in question does not actually look like an exploded octopus.
On Saturday of last week my now 2-day old manicure began falling off in chunks, due to the crap-ass quick dry top coat favored by so many salons.
On Saturday of last week I did not remove my now hideously deformed nail polish.
Nor did I remove it the next day.
I have gone from having the nail stylings of a 12-year old at a Bat Mitzvah to having the fingernails of a 12-year old in an emo goth phase, and I don’t entirely care, though I know I probably should.
You know.. because I’m a grown-up.
On Saturday of last week I did not remove my now hideously deformed nail polish.
Nor did I remove it the next day.
I have gone from having the nail stylings of a 12-year old at a Bat Mitzvah to having the fingernails of a 12-year old in an emo goth phase, and I don’t entirely care, though I know I probably should.
You know.. because I’m a grown-up.
On Tuesday of this week, I tried out two new polish colors on my chipped thumb nail, turning said nail into a calico cat. I did not remove the two new spots of color because.. why would I do such a thing?
It all culminates this morning, Wednesday morning. During my charming commute to my charming muggle job, I watched the girl next to me tweet the following from her blackberry:
“Eww I hate hoes with chipped nail polish. Looks so trashy.”
And then I laughed really loudly and she quickly hid her phone, and I thought really hard and tried to craft the perfect response (or, failing that, planned to bump into her really hard as I exited the train), but I sadly did not get the opportunity to actually speak to her as she got off at the next stop and ran all the way to the other end of the platform.
She's pretty awesome, I'm guessing.
And so, I say to her (through the vastness of the internets):
“Eww I hate hoes with chipped nail polish. Looks so trashy.”
And then I laughed really loudly and she quickly hid her phone, and I thought really hard and tried to craft the perfect response (or, failing that, planned to bump into her really hard as I exited the train), but I sadly did not get the opportunity to actually speak to her as she got off at the next stop and ran all the way to the other end of the platform.
She's pretty awesome, I'm guessing.
And so, I say to her (through the vastness of the internets):
- Well, first, I'm not a hoe. A "hoe" is a tool for gardening. I believe the word you wanted is "ho," short for whore.
- I’m also not a ho. I’m not sure what would lead you to believe that I am.. although, in fairness, one is most likely to chip their nail polish after a night of flagrant whoring. Logical conclusion. Either that or my knee-length-skirt-and-cardigan ensemble reminded you too much of sexy times. Yes, I realize I'm being too literal with her use of "hoe" but.. here we are.
- I hope your quality of life improves, because surely if you’re tweeting about the chipped polish of a random girl on the subway at 8am, you are in need of intervention and excitement.
