Running in molasses

I feel stuck in an oven. I feel like a butter cookie glistening in the dim light of my double sized oven. It's summer in the city and there is nothing I can do about it. No face mist (too bad Kiehl's, you've served me good in the past), no water-f***ing-proof mascara (YSL&Revlon, I heart you, but this is an epic fail for you), no fancy organic cotton, goop-approved T-shirt will avoid me assiduous perspiration. I am broken. Moving around this mighty city feels like walking through the molasses that one of my favorite writers of all time talked about. If I knew not, I would say I'm in Harper Lee's Alabama world. 

My hair is limp and has decided to be shapeless, and no matter what styling tip I search for on Bloglovin, there will be no solution. 

I wonder why bloggers in general never talk about the real real of running around in a city. You get sweaty, your pores dilate, your hair gets twice as dirty as it would normally and it usually ends up in a tight bun to keep it off your shoulders and stop heating you further. There is no wavy curls casually flowing, no full makeup, no rows of accessories neatly stacked on your goddessesque body. I can barely stand clothes in this heat. If social norms were a tad bit more progressive, we would all berunning around in nothing but our birthday suiys, hopping like happy bunnies.

After realizing I would be aline for dinner, I've now treated myself to two desserts and a glass of Cabernet. Pure happiness. If the wine would have been a bit warmer and the wifi would have worked, it would have undoubtedly been #perfection.

Kiss and Peace

Miss self-contempt Sinister