Stye


My eye is stye.

Whenever I have a stye, I feel like Quasimodo. It's hard to make eye contact with others. It's my own fault. I suspect it's because I didn't wash off my eye makeup well enough three days ago. I looked in the mirror after washing my face and saw smudges of brown eyeliner on my lashline and though, "Meh. Good enough." That's laziness. If I had done my due diligence, I wouldn't be a swollen pink eyelid freak right now.

I used to get styes all the time in high school. Back then, my solution would be to generously dust my eyelids with purple Anna Sui glitter eyeshadow and hope that no one would notice that one of my eyes was swollen to high heavens. I don't think I was fooling anyone. That was literally the worst strategy I could have used to combat a stye. The glitter would irritate my eyes even more.

My mom would try to lessen my despair by saying, "It's because you're too pretty. God said, 'I have to give her a flaw.'" And I would say, "That doesn't make any sense."

But can you imagine a god looking down on his creation and being like, "Too attractive, must activate stye. Angel 094, please commence beauty diminishment on human whatsherface."

That's dumb.

My stye was my own doing, I know that now. Note to self: 100 percent makeup removal is imperative.

But in the meantime, Hello. My name is stye.

-j

thank you, love you, xoxo ✨

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