I’m fairly low-maintenance. I drink cheap beer from the can, love a good Pauly Shore flick and my wardrobe contains mostly men’s tank tops and roughed up jeans. I’m a simple girl…woman? Chick? I don’t know. The honourable Britney Spears said it best, “Not a girl. Not yet a woman.” Inspired genius. But I digress…
I will always envy the ladies who can wear shirts with buttons and apply makeup without feeling like a kid on Halloween, but that’s just not me. Oh, sure. I’ve tried! Oh, how I’ve tried. But I give up. It’s just not my lot in life to appear put together or, for lack of a better word, fancy.
I’m going to be forty eight years old and still shopping in the young men’s section of H&M. I’m going to have crow’s feet, more freckles than I can count, and hair out to here. I’ll probably have holes in half the clothes I wear and my shoes will definitely be dirty. But fuck it, guys. I’ll have a smile on my face. Probably. Unless someone cuts in front of me in the bank line or gets in between me and a pack of Depends. But that’s what canes are for, right? Ninja chops.
I wrote this after two tall cans of Steamwhistle* so it probably makes little to no sense and I really don’t know why any of you read this crap. Y’all clearly have too much free time.
*Hey, Steamwhistle. I’m definitely on board if you guys want to sponsor me. Freelance writers who’ve never had a paid gig are totally eligible for sponsorships from beer companies, correct?