You Can Keep Your Damn Beauty Samples

Hi. Remember me? I'm drunk. (I KNOW, J'SUPRISE.) Okay, I'm not DRUNK drunk, just like 4/7s drunk. I had two glasses of wine, and felt inspired to do something. Like Lindsay Lohan trying out a new accent. So here I am, spreading my horrible beauty opinions again, like a Jeffree Star/Typhoid Mary hybrid.

I have to be honest, like I am about thinking Justin Bieber's dad is objectively super hot, some of y'all might not be down with the opinion I'm about to spew forth:

I HATE BEAUTY PRODUCT SAMPLES.

I know. You're about to be all, "But it's so fun and new and fresh and new and fresh and also new." But like liking This Is Us—you are wrong.

Let me say, whenever I buy something from Sephora and they try to give me some damn samps, I am v much like:

Keep your Armani Blue Wave Kool Splash Zone cologne sample, honey girl. I am not interested.

Like Rueben Studdard, I'm Sorry for 2004, but I have my reasons. Just hear me out. 

They're Too Small To Do Shit

Listen, Sapphire the beautiful sales associate who somehow looks hot as f wearing gray-ass matte lipstick, I don't need to try anything doled out in a metric amount of less than a thimble. How will I even know if I like an eye cream that I can try on half of one crow's foot-laden under eye? I NEED A GD VAT OF ANYTHING. My cells are literally dying by the millisecond over here. Help a bitch.

Or I need at least more than a literal swipe of foundation. I will never be like, "Oh, I love how this foundation worked on 17% of my forehead. This is a yes for me. Sign me all the way up!" Who can even get one use out of these damn things? David the Gnome? 

And that's not even my only issue.

I Don't Need to Like More Things

Listen, my beauty routine is exten-muthaeffing-sive. I already have too much shit. The last thing I need is more shit.

What happens if I try one dot of a miracle serum, fall Justin-Bieber's-dad-style in love, then find out it's $457 for one fluid ounce? I will have to move to the moon. It's my only option. And it's cheaper.

I don't need new things. Period. Keep your new things. Especially the spendy sort. I'm old as hell. I still shop at Forever21, because I literally only have two pennies to rub together.

So, beauty samples? All I have to say is...

See you in two years, or something.

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A Farewell To The Ridiculous: Goodbye, America's Next Top Model

By now, I'm sure you've heard the tragic national news: America's Next Top Model is coming to an end.

Don't worry, I will be saying all of the appropriate goodbyes here, where we can have time to mourn the kookiest-ass moments ever seen on reality TV. And I'm not being hyperbolic by throwing out the term kooky. THIS SHIT IS KOOKY.

This actual shit show (hate that I love you) is in its TWENTY-MF-ing-SECOND SEASON, which just seems excessive and unnecessary. It's high time for a goodbye, even though it's tough.

Will we miss Ty Ty? Yeah, sure, whatever. But I think we know our hearts will really have a hole the exact same size as one Miss J. Alexander in a few short months.

Where will we get our much needed weekly dose of glamour? Courtney Stodden?

She can't even get on this level. No one can.

I'll also miss the never ending crop of beautiful weirdos the producers keep inexplicably finding year after year.

I do know.

Stop it.

Stop it, the sequel.

We feel you.

Basically, how I feel about this whole show, which I have spent 95829850439 hours of my life watching.

You mean you're kooky and you're kooky?

I don't have a problem with this one.

And to be fair, Tyra has had her own moments of (mostly unintentional) entertainment.

Babies are vastly overrated. Modeling a cardigan in a Sears catalog is not.

This...cannot be real. Please let this be real.

This is the end of the road, Ty Ty. Pack your bags and return home.

Goodnight, moon.

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