I don't care what “Glamour” magazine has to say about it...there is something wonderful about refusing to wash your makeup off for four day straight (and just continually Spackle-ing on new stuff over top of the old stuff every morning like stucco), and then when it get's to the point where it's just too much (there are little black things sticking to the grease in the creases of your nostrils, and it has become apparent that you are molting- a phenomena not meant to be displayed by any human being) you scrub your face until you resemble a horrifyingly sun-burnt hairless cat...
And then when your face looks like a stop sign, you smother a thick-assed layer of shity drug-store facial (or body...depending on your budget) cream all over, before proceeding to the front porch with your laptop, and your dishevelled hair up in a ramshackle bun, where you sit in your bathrobe on the step (because it's the only place in the house you can steal internet), while those passing by throw you looks of sincere pity because they likely believe you to be the victim of some horrible fire, from which you acquired your third degree burns...
yes there is absolutely something to be said about exfoliation...
On that note, however, there is also something to be said about an industrial-duty concealer...(so that you can make yourself look like a real person again)
Happy scrubbing.
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