Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Attention Customers? Please Send SRS Assistance to Aisle 1
Two Halloweens ago I dressed up as Mother Earth. I wore green clothing and tights, and put green glittery make-up all over my arms and face (and chest. Gotta take care of the cleavage). I even got that colored spray, sprayed my hair green and put millions of bobby pins and fake twigs and leaves in the now-green-rock that used to be my hair (it washed right out, thank God).
I looked pretty damn good.
Until the bars closed and I walked to my car (I wasn't the one driving).
I'm not quite sure what had happened except that I think I can blame a good majority on some homemade minty shots earlier in the evening.
I just fell over.
On my face.
I didn't even have scratches on my hands, so I'm pretty sure I didn't try to catch myself at all. Well, mostly I caught myself with my chin and my nose. As I was trying to figure out what I had just done, I heard a girl shout out:
Oh my God, he just pushed her down! Do you want us to call the cops? We should call the cops!
Since I'm pretty sure that the guy with me had not pushed me down, mostly because he looked worried and was helping me up, I slurred back:
Nmo, ish oke. I frelt bo meshelf.
(No, it's okay. I fell by myself.)
They didn't call the cops so I think they understood me.
Or the guy got us out of there before his ass went to jail.
My face was pretty bad the next day. There were scratches all over, especially by my nose and chin, and a particularly bad one on my forehead. The thing that I have never been able to live down is that my face became progressively worse over the next month. I ended up with two black eyes that took a month to peak, and longer to go away. Not only that but I had to deal with the acne that came along with putting pounds of make-up over these bruises. Thank God for dim lighting at restaurants.
Everytime I would go out in public I would get those, you should really break up with your abusive boyfriend looks.
The thing is, no one did anything about it. Meaning they never actually said anything to me except for those who knew me well and had heard the story. And those people just wanted to make fun of me and tell me what an idiot I was (am).
Moral of this story? Don't expect the Wal-Mart cashier to help you if your significant other is beating you.