Mallory's Camera

Short hair really brings out the Bambi eyes (as smokingboot calls them.)

I’m not sure whether I look good in this photo or whether I look like one of those little old ladies riding the bus when I was a teenager whose full-court lipsticked Cupid’s bows, tweezed eyebrows, and powdered rouge always annoyed the shit out of me. This was the battle paint of their youths, you see. The little old ladies saw “beauty” in them, but to me, the effect was very Whatever-Happened-to-Baby Jane-ish & grotesque.

In the photo above, I am wearing the heavy eyeliner that was a makeup trend of my youth.

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This is the time of year when I think a lot about death & failure.

(It’s that wacky Seasonal Affective Disorder!)

But how does one define “failure” anyway? By accomplishments? By monetary liquidity? By happiness?

Was Vincent Van Gogh a success or a failure?

Am I a success or a failure?

I’ve certainly lived one of the more interesting lives I know in terms of the sheer variety of experiences I’ve garnered, and my two kids have turned out well—meaning my negligible parenting skills didn’t fuck them up entirely.

But from Daily Mail stories about Celebrities! They’re Just Like Us—Only Better! to the smug Trump voters in the Wallkill 12589 FB group, I’m surrounded by yardsticks that tell me, Whoa, girlfriend! You are a mess!

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Meanwhile, we’re having another spate of relatively warm weather: It’s in ther 50°s today, and all the snow has melted.

I’m gonna get out & tromp.