Yet here’s a spot.
Ever a spot—wherefore didst I choose
Tempest-Proof Fenty Mascara, Dior Addict Lip Tattoo,
Till Death Do Us Part Mac Foundation?
Ere shadow of night pass o’er the castle,
Let mine eyes shed their heavy Ne’er-Fade eye shadow.
Out, damned spot! out, I say!—One: two: why,
then, ’tis time to remove’t.—Smudges are murky!—Fie, my
lord, fie! From Lancome, and afeard? What need we
fear 48 hours’ continuous wear, when none thought
that rate literal?—Yet who would have thought the old lip stain
to have had so much staying power.
The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?—
Probably still trying to get this gunk off her face!
What, will these eyes ne’er be clean?—No more o’
that, my lord, no more o’ that: if I use coconut oil
I’ll just break out.
Here’s the acrid smell of makeup remover still: all the
perfumes of Arabia will not unsmoke this little
eye. Oh, oh, oh!
Wash your hands, put on your Retinol cream; look not so
Pale,—th’bronzer’s not nearly gone.—I tell you yet again,
‘tis not mascara creas’d in the corner of thine eye, ‘tis
a new age spot, nought ere noticed. ‘Tis but a
mark o’ thy nearness to the grave.
To bed, to bed! there’s knocking at the gate:
come, come, come, come, give me your Q-tip. Spread
a towel o’er the pillow, just in case. What’s
applied cannot be unapplied.—To bed, to bed, to bed!