Maybe just try it. You don’t even have to show anyone. Make the clackity noise until a little story falls out. Just a little bit and just for a little while. Just until you notice one tiny, dumb, pointless story that the keyboard wanted you to remember.
When historians look back on this period of existence (and I mean the fun historians, the ones who look at food and love and what kind of pets people had, not the war kind) I’m convinced they’re going to wind up focusing on the lack of red lipstick.
Sure, it still exists, tucked in the pages of fashion magazines or strutting down a catwalk during Fashion Week, but on the streets of Middletown it’s been replaced by an army of other sticks, glosses and shimmers and balms, available in every color and tint under the sun.
Abby was the only girl I’ve dated who I ever saw wear red lipstick and I’m convinced I only dated her because of it. She wound up being pretty awesome for a lot of other reasons, but when it’s intermission at a hardcore show in a Midwestern church, you need something to make you stand out.
Red lipstick works for that. Forget about low-rise jeans, forget about super-high heels.
Red lipstick is pure sex.
