Paint an Inch Thick

Hello Escritori,

 

When things are fine in the Bipolar area of life, I struggle for content on Tuesdays. Today is my 100th post! 

I’ve also been included in the role call of memorable poets at Ink and Quill all thanks to the generosity of Jennifer Calvert and the lovely C.M. Blackwood who put me forward. It means that I am happily welcoming more readers this morning which is a great way to mark the milestone. Sunday is my poetry day, do come and spend it here.

What would you like to see on the blog as an alternative/for variety in the Tuesday slot? Book reviews? Shorts? More flash fiction? Do please inspire me as always.

To commence today’s revels, the title is a Hamlet quote, which the Prince dishes out, to his Mother, disrespectfully – for wearing too much make up. (I couldn’t be bothered to take pictures of my make up.)

Everything seems geared towards Friday for my friend’s birthday. I will probably post gratuitous ‘check out my gift wrapping skills, yo’ photos in Thursday’s post; but hark! What is that in the distance? The drumbeat of a Wedding Season prologue?

Yes. I’m going to an engagement party in the ‘burbs of London town. In a minibus. I’m not talking Pimp My Pumpkin, sadly. Pola + Transport + Beautiful Clothes = Vomiting Risk.

There’s nothing worse, (in addition to throwing up all over yourself) than doing so onto your loveliest I’m a Priority Guest get-up. NOTHING. Don’t even try to best me: Fate knows.

I’m going to have to hot foot it to my friend’s birthday, and then catch the bus back to get home in time for a THEATRE WORTHY quick outfit change. Then, weeping like an Oscar winner (courtesy of my contacts) is followed by twenty-minutes of softly buffed foundation fixation. Is it even? Do I look like a sunburnt orange that fell in a river of self tan?  Then I will conceal, add blush, lip balm and curl my lashes.

I’ve decided to be deliberately minimal. So glad that I don’t have to worry about my hair.

The two contenders for ‘last minute acts of stupidity’ are that: a) with wild abandon I decide to learn how to contour under a time constraint OR b) I mess up my gel eye-liner. As a writer I feel a tremendous security in drawing lines on myself: war paint. Lack of it will probably make me look hideously young.

I hope you’re getting the ‘I really hate this’ vibe that isn’t half as concealed as my face.

I feel slightly alien to myself in that I can’t seem to write lately, therefore some other form of creativity must needs take it’s place, perhaps paring back is a sign of confidence? Something to ponder.

Keep scribbling,

~ Pola ~

 

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