Meghan Blalock

I can’t fake anything, really. I inherited from my mother the complete inability to lie or pretend anything. If she’s unhappy, everyone in the room knows it. If she’s enjoying something, everyone in the room knows it. Her face cannot tell lies, and neither can mine.

Do not “pop” into any stores in Soho, on Fifth Ave, or the LES for that matter to buy anything. Forget what it feels like to shop on an even semi-regular basis, except for the sale section at Urban Outfitters. Forget why you ever shopped so much in the first place.

Heightening the aforementioned emotional experiences is the ominous unanswered text message. Perhaps you’re just reaching out as a gesture of thoughtfulness, or perhaps it’s a deeper expression of longing, but whatever it is, if it goes unanswered, it can be, and usually is, quite hurtful.

Screw you, HBC, for making me feel that way. Screw you for making me irrational, hairless, enraged and depressed. Screw you for making me bleed like a stuck pig and curl into a fetal position from such exquisite pain. Screw  you for messing with my beautiful skin.