A skincare miracle that is. So last Monday I had a couple of moles removed on my face. They were tiny but I hated them & they had to go. I got it done at Visage Clinic, which I definitely recommend. Go to a plastic surgeon not a dermatologist, please. After the surgery (which only took about an hour & I didn’t feel a thing thanks to a few massive fucking needles filled with some lovely anesthetics) I wasn’t supposed to get the stitches wet at all. My stitches only came off this Monday so that meant no showers FOR A WEEK. I felt like when I was thirteen at camp. After three days though, I was supposed to change the bandages once a day & clean the wounds with saline water. Nothing else was allowed to go on or around or pretty much anywhere near the wounds. The first day I cleaned them, my face felt so greasy from three days off of my usual Honey Girl Organics regimen that I ended up wiping my whole face down with the salt water (I used those nail polish remover pads whatever they’re called). Surprisingly, it made my face feel super soft & clean so I kept doing this all week.
Once I got my stitches out & could see my whole face again I realized that my skin looked really really good so I actually just kept washing my face with the saline water & nothing else. No toner or exfoliator or moisturizer or anything. At first I was worried it would dry out my face but I didn’t notice anything & I’m usually racing for my moisturizer when I get out of the shower in the morning so this is definitely shocking to me. Like you know when you’re at the beach & you get out of the ocean & your face is burning? That didn’t happen. My surgeon told me to start rubbing Bio Oil into the scars on Tuesday. I was tripping out about that because I didn’t wanna put oil on my face & have it break out but he said not to worry. Then my mom told me she uses it for anti-aging & it gave her a really even complexion. She said if you rub it in really well its not greasy & actually works as a moisturizer. So I started rubbing it in after the saline water.
Let me tell you, my skin has NEVER looked better. I know its only been a couple of days but my skin has really changed. I don’t know if it’s because those moles are gone so it looks more uniform & even (even though there’s nasty scars there now) but I am seriously so impressed. So far the Bio Oil hasn’t caused any acne at all. I’ve never had bad acne, just a pimple here & there, but I haven’t seen a single blemish since I started with the salt water. My skin is so fucking soft, even in this disgusting dry Toronto weather. I’ve always thought I had big pores on my nose that really bothered me but my pores look at least 50% smaller now. Any redness is entirely gone. & all those little dots & spots you only notice when you’re really inspecting yourself in those zoomed in kill yourself mirrors are GONE!!!!!!! It’s a fucking Christmas miracle. I feel like I’m one of those people in the Facebook adds like “Doctors don’t want you to know this secret” but I swear it’s really working, try it!!
So wipe down with saline water (boil one litre of water to get any bad shit out & then put it in like a big mason jar & add a teaspoon of salt) & then moisturize with the Bio Oil (I got a big bottle for like $40 at Whole Foods). Make sure you rub it in really well & do this twice a day obviously. In regards to the scars, I’m just gonna keep praying to the Bio Oil gods to take them away
So I got my first mean comment today. Ready?
“You are such a pathetic wannabe. Your Instagram is the most middle class thing in the world. Please stop trying to pretend you’re remotely interesting/wealthy. Stop blogging and have fun working in retail, peasant.”
Okay bitch, I have a few things to say to you. Here’s the short answer:
Get the fuck off my blog then. Duh.
& the long answer:
This blog is for me, not you. I couldn’t care less if you personally enjoy it or not. I do, & believe it or not, some other people do too. Sorry if I’m too “middle class” for you. I’m not pretending to be something that I’m not. I’m just writing about what goes on in my day, whether it’s pretty or not. The particular post you commented on was about me getting a freaking hairbrush stuck in my head, not jumping in my G4 & popping Ace of Spades. Settle down. Also, what kind of person feels the need to say something like that to another person? Did I really upset you that much? I’m definitely not gonna stop doing something I enjoy because some random loser on the internet doesn’t like it, sooorrry. I won’t even approach the fact that you called me a peasant, YOU FUCKING LOSER. If I’m not “wealthy/interesting” enough to satisfy you, then go analyze Betches Love This some more & continue taking notes on how to be sick.
So “Morgan”, to summarize, take a Xanax & shut the fuck up. Thanks
I’ve been obsessively checking my horoscope trying to figure out what the hell is going on in my life because things just keep going soo so wrong. You can’t even make this shit up. So yesterday afternoon I was all upset because my hair stylist was on vacation & I needed to get a blowout but I thought to myself “you subscribe to goop, you can do this”. Turns out I absolutely could not do this! I got out of the shower, applied my makeup (going for a dark smokey eye at this point) & did what any other girl in my situation would do, I googled “how to get a perfect blowout at home”. I ran all over my house collecting supplies & then I got to work. I’m in my bra & underwear, dancing around my bathroom doing my hair, when I get to step 12. Motherfucking step 12. I took a thick chunk of hair at the crown of my head & twisted it around a round brush, gave the roots a quick puff from underneath & began to pull the brush through my hair. Except it wouldn’t fucking budge. The brush was stuck in my hair. Obviously, I panicked & started pulling the brush every which way to free my hair, didn’t work. I did the next best thing I could think of. I called my mom in absolute hysterics & made her come over immediately. I think she thought someone had died but at least she got there really fast. We got my hair stylist on the phone, who happened to be sitting in the lounge at Miami International &, thank god, had time to talk. She prepared me for the worst case scenario, assured me that she had some of my leftover extensions at the salon & then talked my mom through what to do. Then, as my mom stood there, pouring olive oil onto my head while I bawled my eyes out in my kitchen (that perfect smokey eye was now two very black eyes), guess who walked in? Yep, you got it. My boyfriend. At first he was concerned, but as soon as he put together what had happened he went from wiping my tears to laughing & sending his friends snapchat videos. To make matters worse, we were late for shabbat dinner & I was in so much paint that I couldn’t go on any longer. Once my mom finally got the brush out of my hair (TWO HOURS LATER), we put the giant mess in an olive oil soaked pony tail & off I went to Shaun’s. I had to sit through dinner with his entire family with an olive oil ponytail!! The stress of that situation, coupled with the pain I was in, the wine I was drinking & the shouting at the dinner table, turned into a full blown panic attack & I had to go upstairs & sit in his moms bed while she brushed my hair out & fed me tequila shots to calm me down. Thankfully, we didn’t have to cut any of my hair but my head still hurts today & there was no way in hell I could go out last night. So lesson learned, I will never ever attempt to style my own hair again.
I should probably add that I’m pretty sure I brought this upon myself because the night before I was checking myself out in the mirror & bragging about how long my hair had gotten & how I probably wouldn’t have to get hair extensions that summer. Karma bitches
This morning I woke up feeling super domestic. As per usual, the very first thing I do when I wake up is make a coffee. I click the button & pick up my phone to check Instagram & by the time I made my way back to my kitchen it was a fucking disaster. A bomb went off in my tassimo. There was literally coffee grounds all over the walls & a coffee river on the floor. That was much too stressful for me so I went back to bed. GREAT FUCKING START!
A couple hours later I returned to the scene of the crime &, thank god (or whoever cleaned it up), it was gone. I took this as a good sign & proceeded with my plan for the day. Making kosher meatballs for Shabbat. My boyfriends mom taught me the secret family recipe cause she’s a gem. & I’m not Jewish but Shaun’s family is so I have to try extra hard. Luckily, they’re the greatest people ever. Except my boyfriend, he’s out of his fucking mind. I got down to business, mixing the meat with my bare hands & chopping onions & whatnot. No, I won’t expose Grammy’s magical recipe. Let me just tell you, by the time they were off the stove & into the oven I was finished my bottle of white & forgot what temperature, how long, everything. I guess we’ll have to see how they turn out. Oy vey, am I right?
K so then the craziest thing happened. I instagrammed a video of my meatballs looking freaking fantastic bubbling in the pan perfectly timed to music. & my boyfriend messages me saying “omg I saw your meatballs on Insta they look amazing”. EXCUSE ME!? You saw my meatballs on Instagram & you didn’t like my Instagram? What the fuck is that about. Obviously, I made my disappointment clear to him & he responded with this:
“I don’t participate in a socially awkward experiment to pretend to like photos or memories that are only lived and shared through a tiny glass partition. It’s disgusting. I prefer human interaction. If it was up to me I would be making those meatballs with you not just liking the fact that your making them. I am very proud and extremely happy with what you are trying to do. But liking your insta would in no way verify your Judaism in the terms that are reapers through a society of judicial rules and guidelines. That being said if you would like to take on traditions you should download instajews. BOOM MINDFUCKED”.
I just can’t. Turns out he was joking, instajews isn’t a real thing & that asshole still didn’t like my Instagram.
Now I don’t know what to do with the rest of my day. I need to go pick up some stuff I ordered at Tiffany’s but I’m too drunk to drive. I guess I’ll go look at tumblr now
So I saw this talk show on E & the women we’re talking about some mom who’s actually encouraging her nine year old to aspire to be a housewife. The hosts we’re tripping out but I honestly don’t see what’s wrong with it. That’s a smart fucking girl. I wish my parents encouraged me to do that. Maybe I would have learned how to do my own laundry by now. & I’d be able to cook things without using the Whole Foods recipe app on my iPad. I seriously think that most woman who work & look down on housewives/stay at home mom’s are really just jealous they can’t afford to do so. I literally dream about being a housewife. & so do all my girlfriends. & all our boyfriends want us to be there waiting for them at the end of the day with a tight pilates ass & dinner on the table. What could possibly be better? Get up, get the kids ready for school, meet my friends (who obviously live across the street) for Starbucks & yoga, get our nails done, grocery shop, real shop, make dinner for the fam, etc. I get that it’s hard work but it’s not like I won’t have a house cleaner too…
After my mom bought me my first pair of Loubs for my high school prom (Lady Peep 150 mms), I was hooked. Addicted. I would gladly whip out my already maxed out credit card for a pair of these freakin shoes. They look absolutely FANTASTIC. They make your legs look a) coke diet skinny & b) supermodel long. But then it hit me. Taking your heels off in the booth is NOT a good look. And almost crashing your car because “my feet are so fucking numb I couldn’t feel the break!!” is not a good excuse. It’s like the soles are red to pay tribute to the blood on my feet. Ew. How am I supposed to look good while I’m falling over, regardless of the twelve grey goose sodas that are splashing around in my stomach. My usual mantra “Beyonce wouldn’t take her heels off” doesn’t even help in this desperate situation. I’m gonna stick to my padded Pradas from now on. Or even better *hint hint* platform Jeffrey Campbell’s for all nighters. I’m sorry Christian, but this relationship just isn’t working anymore.
Also, why does nobody talk about this? Like you’re weak if you admit your feet hurt or something. LOUBOUTINS blow okay? I said it. Fucking sue me (please don’t). Nobody is happy in those shoes, I promise. I feel like it’s some conspiracy, like woman saying childbirth is amazing
I guess since it’s officially Monday, I’ll start with a little weekend recap. Thursday was completely standard. Woke up early (9am is early ok?) for hot yoga where I gushed out at least five pounds of sweat but then I met my favourite friend at Café Nervosa & ate/drank triple that. The caprese salad is killer. In good way. Then we did a little shopping & I accidentally bought like twelve gold charms at Tiffany’s. Don’t ask. But I will tell you that the new Tiffany’s on Bloor is super gorgeous & the doorman’s name is Leslie so I made a new friend. Yes, Leslie, spelt the same way as my name. With an “I-E’. The boy way, I know! Thanks mom & dad. Then we sat in traffic listening to Beyonce for five hours while we made our way to the nail salon. I got an awful highlighter pink & couldn’t sit still long enough for it to dry so we had to leave via the LCBO. Getting out your ID plus your credit card plus your airmiles is not an easy feat with wet nails, by the way. We finally got home & proceeded to drink a bottle of wine each before her dad made it home with our sushi. A couple hours later we were out the door, on our way to meet our boys at Switch. As usual, we showed up after them & walked in to see the standard thirty dick/bottle thirsty bitches in our booth. A guy even said to me “I love how you two show up & all the girls leave”.. Like yes, we remove the whores. I won’t even get in to the rest of the night because my memory isn’t too perfect but we danced on the booth all night & a friend of mine got a few punches in on this dirty slut whose slept with half my friends boyfriends. So all in all, great night. Saturday morning, my boyfriend & I dragged our drunk asses to The Artist Project, this really cool art show at the Ex & met some amazing artists & bought some sick pieces for my house. I literally can’t write anymore so, to summarize, the rest of the weekend was spent in my boyfriend’s bed drinking wine & watching Keeping Up mostly.
But my therapist has suggested I start a blog to “get a sense of direction”. Basically, I need to FIO. Fast. Now I don’t know if anybody really cares about these run on sentences in my brain that I just have to share but buckle up bitches cause I’m doing it anyways!!
Soo about me: I’m barely twenty years old, born & raised in Toronto & I’m 100% funemployed (I swear I invented the term but whatever). I love fashion, design, reality tv & my boyfriend. Oh & a massive glass of sauvignon blanc, of course. In my future I will probably either start my own super successful interior design company or start a fantastic bikini line that I personally model all over Instagram. I promise I’m gonna be completely open & honest & all that so hopefully I can entertain somebody other than myself…