What I’m Doing 

What the hell am I doing. I’m 25 and I still fall asleep with my makeup on.
I still curl up in a small corner of my bed, past my bedtime, surrounded by plush animals and cartoon characters, and I cry and my $3 mascara smears all over the pillowcase my mom bought because I’m 25 and I still go to bed wearing makeup.

I can get ready to go out, take my time, put on a perfect coat of foundation and wing my eyeliner and make my eyebrows “on point”. I can feel good about my outfit and I can wear expensive boots I bought myself and I can carry keys and walk around The City. I can shop and talk to store clerks and show an ID when carded. 

Then I go home and get overwhelmed because my kitchen is messy and my living room is messy and my bathroom is messy and my bedroom is messy. Even the cat is messy, he knocks an empty bottle off the table. So I grab a superhero blanket and I fall onto the couch and I pull my knees to my chest and I pout. I put up roadblocks, as mom would say, to every good idea my boyfriend has, and I sulk and I drink seltzer and I look at the mess and wait for it to clean itself. 

I don’t think about what I want to do with my future, my covered and simmering potential, even though I have absolutely no idea. I also don’t scoop the cat box or put that plate in the dishwasher. I pick at the pills on my sweater and huff a little until I feel a lump in my throat. Then, I go to bed. 

I step over the mess. I fall on the bed, drag myself into a corner, cry $3 mascara and $3 winged eyeliner into my pillow case, and fall asleep with nothing resolved. I have to wake up, need to work 9-5, and I have to be up early to take off this makeup I fell asleep in. 

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