IS MASCARA OVER?

You know those blobby cartoon creatures that snap back into place even after they've been blown up or shot through with a surface-to-air missile? That's kind of like mascara. No matter how thorough a removal job you may think you've done, it somehow regenerates overnight like B.O.B. from Monsters vs. Aliens, and you wake up to find new flakes embedded in your eye crinkles. In approximately two out of 10 cases, they settle in just the right Rochas Spring 2015-like formation and you flounce out with the smugness of a woman who woke up looking editorial; the rest of the time, it's A Clockwork Orange.

Besides that, I don't really have a problem with mascara. I wore it every day for three years straight, and it was a good run, until recently, when I just...stopped. It had a lot to do with Joseph Altuzarra and Alexander Wang and Dick Page, but it had more to do with feels. And vibes. (Yes, the universe sends me those types of signals.)