Paper or Plastic?

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You wake up. The alarm as been blasting in your ear for the last three minutes and you have suddenly decided to terminate it with your drowsy fist. Okay, so it wasn’t terminated per say, but it did finally shut up. You slowly slide out of your warm covers and feel your feet touch the inviting carpet. You meander your way over to your dresser mirror. You gently rub your eyes in a feeble attempt to feel somewhat more awake. After about thirty seconds of that, you look up to see some weirdo looking at you. Who is she? And what is with her hair…wait…no…that’s…ME!

It’s happening again! No! Your inner self lets out a piercing scream equivilent to thousands of crying toddlers as your outer self’s chin drops to your pajama top.

WHY?!?!

This feeling is the equivalent of millions of finger nails scraping the chalk board of your soul. You cringe as your world suddenly plummets to the nether regions of your empty stomach.

It’s…Paper Bag Day.

AGAIN.

Paper Bag Days are a common occurrence in the life of an average, senile sensible female. These are the days that we look like we have been hit with an eighteen wheeler only to be tossed in garbage disposal and suddenly propelled through a wind tunnel of tar and chicken feathers. At least that’s what our minds say. To put it simply, some days girls just feel ugly.

Has anything changed physically?

Nope.

Does that change our determined dictator minds?

Again, nope.

Paper Bag Days are when you literally want to shield your hideous existence from the unsuspecting the world with an innocent (yet useful) brown paper bag. One day you feel like Tyra Banks, and the next you feel like Voldemort. Yeah, it’s that bad. The day before can be filled with compliments and praises galore, but as soon as the P.B.D. virus infects the unsuspecting female brain, the results can be quite catastrophic. Possible side effects include and are not limited to chocolate binges, rom-com marathons, mixed matched sweat pants, lack of makeup/confidence and possibly loud and slightly obnoxious sobbing.

How does this happen? You would have an easier time explaining crop circles or Chuck Norris. I don’t even think science can construe a logical explanation. It just, well, happens. It seems that every female I know occasionally contracts the P.B.D. virus. Maybe it’s in the chocolate…

The good thing about the cursed P.B.D. virus is that it can be cured. Just apply some laughter, good cheer and a double dose of generosity. Making someone else feel great on your P.B.D. definitely helps relieve the pain and sensitivity.

And don’t worry, it will clear up eventually. Cheer up, buttercup and keep on smiling. You’re gorgeous despite what your infiltrated cranium whispers to you. So look in the mirror and be fierce. Look at you, girl. You got this.

Stay gorgeous and amazing and what not.

Loads of Love,
Kate
xoxo

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