The story of a lonesome ol'Jerome

*Gwyn's POV*

Before dawn on Saturday, I went through the whole bathroom ritual, and then came the inevitable struggle. When you profoundly despise the way you look, it can be a little difficult to pick out a super-awesome outfit, if you can dig. I laughed to myself, knowing that I would be in the minority- I was not a skinny jeans person, if anything I went for flares. But instead of pants, I felt more like a skirt for once. I'm not really super-feminine, but it was a 'special occasion.' I felt a little daring, I guess, so I put on a black wife-beater, and the ancient Metallica shirt I’d had since 7th grade, the one with just about as many holes as actual shirt. I dusted my clunky platform boots off and buckled them up to my knees. Hair went up in a bun, I wasn't into fancy hair shit. Ok, well, that'd do.

I frowned before going to the mirror. Just as anticipated, the usual wave of disappointment. Fucking dammit. I brought out the make-up kit, rifled through it, and then looked in the cursed mirror. Hmm… I ultimately went with deep scarlet eye shadow that exploded pretty unrepentantly all over the place. I added black eyeliner and thick black mascara. It was not meant to look pretty, it was meant to look like me, and it did. I decided not to wear any lip-stuff because I didn’t feel like fucking around with it all day, and I was probably going to be eating and drinking. I didn’t normally wear make up, because make up that really made me feel good about myself wasn't suitable for the workplace. I walked over to my smaller dresser and picked out a collar and buckled it on. I grabbed the printed out ticket by my computer, my phone, and my purse, and stuffed the little notebook with the piece of paper tucked in I was hoping BVB might sign inside. I found my keys and took off.

Notes