My fingers tear through a snag and all I can think about is the fact that my face may be pretty, but it is framed by a torn-up bird's nest. After that, all I can think about is how insignificant hair is. I want it gone.
My lips are dry and flaky, my skin is rough and red and bumpy, and my eyes are chocolate-rimmed and smudgy. Nothing about today feels good, and by “feels good” I mean “looks good.”
My mood is set, and based on what?
Nothing too important.