Faceday: Brick, Navy, Gold

Hello hello Lyfers. This is officially the first ever Hawaiian Faceday brought to you by yours truly. Let’s fuckin’ DO it.

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The Inspiration
1. This shirt. Ugh. It’s so cute and feminine and comfy without making me feel like a child.
2. My residual salt at an interaction I had right before Halloween in which someone told me they hated my haircut because it makes me look like a boy. Um. Not a boy. Queer? Yes. Kind of masculine? Yes. Not actually a dude. Rude ass. So, because I’m petty above all else it’s time to cry about it get effin’ feminine.

Yeah But How Did You DO it, Buttnana
DON’T WORRY FAM. I got choo. This look is really easy and doubles for a look book page from the Urban Decay Smoky Palette, which looks like this in case you have dupes:

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Source

  1. Do your foundation and brows as you usually would. Because I wanted to look extra chiseled today, I contoured a bit more than normal and applied blush to the outsides of my cheeks rather than the apples. I also contoured along my jaw today because if someone’s going to say I look like a boy then I am at least going to be a handsome one.
  2. Once your face is done how you like, note the palette above. Of course, you can do this however else you’d like to get the neutral/gold look I went for here.
    – I patted High (far left) all over my lid with my fingertip.
    – I then used a crease brush (mine is rectangular but you can use which ever one tickles your pickle) and swept Dirtysweet (second from the left) along the crease and a wee bit past the outer corners of my eyes.
    – Then, I used the fluffy side of the brush that came with the palette (pictured) and blended Dirtysweet toward my brows with Combust (second from the right).
    – After that, I swept Thirteen just beneath the outside halves of my brows, flicking off the excess powder with the fluffy brush and blending toward Dirtysweet. This creates a subtle transition effect with lots of dimension. Now we’re going to use a trick from our Lord and Savior Tati and amp up the depth.
    – Using the short side of the included brush, dab it in Radar (third from the left) and blend it into your crease on the outside 1/3 of your eyes. If it strikes you, you can also flick the brush toward the center of your lid to darken the very outside corners of your eyes. You can use the same short brush to blend it with Dirtysweet to avoid any harsh lines or you can go back in with Dirtysweet and soften anything that needs softening. The point is to cheat dimension where there previously may not have been much.
    – Line your upper and lower lids with navy liner. I used some REAL old kohl liner from Wet&Wild but you can totally use Dagger (sixth from the left) and a liner brush if you’re going for an even softer look. After all that business is done my eyes looked like this:

img_5921Lol @ the dog hair on my nose.

Now that your upper lids are done, let’s smoke out the lower lids.
– Grab a liner brush (I personally like the precision I get from a flat liner brush for this) and load it up with Dagger. Tap off the excess to avoid fallout like the unwelcome guest it is. Dab it on your lower lash line. Dragging it might be faster, but it might, again, cause fallout. Don’t panic at the harsh lines, we’re not leaving it like that.
– Load up a little more Dirtysweet on your Dirtysweet blending brush and smoke out your lower lash line. It will most likely take a minute to blend the two colors together because Dagger isn’t fucking around.
-With the short end of your included brush, dab it gently in Whiskey (third from the right) and smudge it on the outside 1/3 of your lower lashline. A little goes a long way here.
– Clean up the edges with your Combust brush but don’t load any more product on it. Use the residual powder to soften any Dirtysweet edges there may be. My eyes looked like this:

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Now, add your favorite mascara and brick lipstick. If your lipstick is matte I would suggest dotting some lip balm in the center of your lips. This way, it’ll stick when you dip your finger into Dirtysweet and dab-blend it into the center of your lips. You can do as little or as much as you like. I ended up with this Gryffindor-looking ombre:

img_5927Not pictured: any bad hombres

I amped this look up even more with a special septum ring, a stacking ring (because that trend has found a safe home with me forever), black diamond earrings The Merman got me for Valentine’s Day, and a whole lot of attitude. Because crying on the inside is easier when you don’t want to fuck up your makeup.

img_5938Slay.

What are your favorite shirt-inspired looks? Let’s geek about them in the comments. 😀 😀

I’m off to try and warm up somewhere. They weren’t kidding when they said this was a cold shoulder blouse.

Stay classy (or not, I don’t know your life),
Buttnana

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Oh, Manday: I’m Back! And I Have Something to Tell You.

Hey Lyfers! It has been a MINUTE, hasn’t it? Where the hell did I go? I moved in with The Merman! I put my goods in a suitcase, I got on a plane with my dogs, and I moved to Hawai’i to be with the love of my life. *gag*

So while I do apologize for leaving y’all hanging, I am pleased to report that by scaling down and focusing on one thing at a time, I kept my mental state mostly intact and only cried a handful of times. Because I cultivate my need to cry like other people cultivate a garden.

That being said. I have something to tell you.

Oh Christ
I chose today to tell you because this is a very important day for me. Because it’s a very important day for my people. Because I had some truly, truly beautiful support from one of my very best friends and it inspired me. Because if Harry Potter didn’t have to live in a closet, then neither should I.

I’m a witch, guys. I am a full blown, altar-having, religious-study-doing, Hail-The-Four-Guardians, As-Above,-So-Below Solitary witch. I follow The Craft.

This is my coming out story.

So Here’s What Happened
Both of my parents are ex-Catholics. I was never brought up religious. We celebrated all the major American holidays, but the only time we ever went to Church was if someone was getting married or if someone died.  So I was basically a totally free-agent.

When I was eleven, I was shopping around at the local Borders (RIP) and I ran across this book. And I just…I needed it. It felt right, you know? Like when you see a shirt on the mannequin and you know that’s your new favorite shirt even though you don’t look like the mannequin. It was my authentic Coach handbag at the Goodwill.

So I bought it and promptly gave both of my parents a heart attack. I’m still grateful for the parent chapter at the beginning. I think had that not been there they both would have done their patented “I’m just not going to say anything until my stony silence stops whatever this is,” until I hid it away in shame forever. But they didn’t. They read it, nodded in silence, and let me read.

And I read that book. Cover to cover. Twice.

And I bought more books by the same author. I was thrilled that they were study books. I could take notes and follow along! I could learn! I could explore my spirituality and become one of those wonderful, kind, knowing witch ladies with all the amazing herbs and calming presences. I wanted that so bad. I worked my ass of for it, too. I didn’t even care that a couple of classmates bullied the ever-loving shit out of me while I was working at school.

Then…I wanted to practice. I wanted my knowledge to become real.

I promptly ran out of any and all support once I wanted my actual life to be different. Once I wanted privacy once a month to call down the moon. Once I stopped answering the door while I was crafting.

Looking back, I think my family was just freaked out I was asking for personal, uninterrupted private time when I was twelve. Because Goddess forbid I masturbate in the privacy of my own room. #sexism

I’d like to tell you all that I gave the system the big ol’ finger and did it anyway…but once a classmate came over when I was around fifteen, saw my altar sitting quietly in the North corner of my room, and totally destroyed it…I was done. I’m not bulletproof. That really hurt me. My protestations fell on deaf ears as he poured my blessed salt everywhere. He threw it at me, at my other friends. He totally fucking defiled my sacred space.

So I did what any disenfranchised person does: I hid in the closet.

For nine years.

Nine YEARS?!
Yeah. I was tired of people seeing my books and telling me I worshipped a devil I don’t believe in. I was tired of sidelong glances and family members being “worried” about me because I was copying and studying. I was REALLY god damn tired of people laughing at me like I was going through a rebellious phase. Like I just wanted to freak people out. I as the most tired of becoming a fetish object for the boys I dated in high school because, turns out, most of them just wanted to save me.

I didn’t. I just wanted to have my faith. I wanted to come to terms with the fact that I am going to die one day. That shit seems REAL meaningless to me most of the time. I just wanted meaning. I found meaning in the Earth. Worshipping the Earth didn’t hurt anyone.

Apparently…that was the worst thing I could have done.

I got tired of fighting.

Wouldn’t you?

I practiced in secret. I had no altar in college. I had one bumper sticker that said “Pagans make better lovers” and my first roommate’s brother called me a freak. Don’t really know why that was necessary. But it was, I guess.

The guy I dated after college was a pretty staunch atheist and he only had to look down his nose at me once for me to know “can I set up my altar in the guest bedroom?” was not an okay question to ask.

I saw my holidays come and go almost one hundred times. Wiccans are a very celebratory people. And I stayed quiet. It would have broken my heart had I not been so afraid people would find out.

But I never stopped believing.

So What Changed, Buttnana?
That guy moved out. I was alone for the first time ever. My house had a beautiful window facing North. That’s important for us. So I set up my altar there. And I started slowly studying again, like a scared animal who wants to trust the kind stranger with the outstretched hand.

I finished grad school. Once school was over I was free to really embrace my witchy side.

I cultivated amazing girlfriends. Women together are magical. We’re not a Coven, not by any means. But we love each other and that only strengthens me when I feel weak.

I caught The Merman reading one of my books. My religious books. And he looked genuinely interested. I watched his Prince Williamesque face hover over the pages and I thought, finally, “I’m not going to have to hide from him.” I teared up.

I am much stronger now. I’ve been through a lot since I was fifteen and mortified. I DARE that guy to come into my house.

But mostly…what changed is that I don’t want anyone else to live 80% of their life.

Bye-Bye Broom Closet!
So there you have it.
I’m a witch. But enough about me.

Today is Samhain! Remember and honor your dead. They miss you, too. ❤

Love you always,
Buttnana

P.S. We still dress up. I was a doily.

 

Wokesday: You Need to Handle Yourself

Mama’s upset again, Lyfers. AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS.

*soft crying*

Kidding. Let’s hit the ground running on this turd pile, shall we?

OMG What Happened, Buttnana?
GIRL. ARE YOU SITTING DOWN. God I need to reel it back. Actually, I don’t. This was pretty supremely fucked up.

I had a friend visiting from out of town (let’s call him Trevor), and a mutual friend of ours decided to throw a sort of chill kickback at his place. I, personally, was not a fan of the host (let’s call him Dusty). He always shoulder punched me in high school and referred to me as a bro. And as bro-y as I can be…not actually a dude. So…maybe…don’t fucking hit me?

And, honestly, I should have just turned around and left when I showed up and there were two people there: Dusty and someone who tried to date me in middle school. I didn’t, though. I wanted to see my friend, you know? After some small talk that consisted mostly of me playing with Dusty’s three giant dogs, Trevor showed up weee!

Almost immediately, it got weird. It takes longer to make a hot pocket than it did for my night to turn to shit.

Dick Parade
Shortly before Trevor even arrived, this whole trash fire was just primed for awkwardness. Dusty, in what I can only imagine was a desperate attempt to look cool, decided to show me all of his tattoos. And he had like…three big pieces? A different guest, not to be outdone I guess, showed me all of his tattoos.

Okay cool so I didn’t ask about anyone’s ink…why are these dudes stripping to show me their bodies. Why. Ew. Ew ew ew. I hadn’t seen either of them in seven years and my first introduction to both of them is “LOOK AT THESE PARTS OF MY NAKED BODY.”

So this was my life.

quinn
Photo credit

It only got worse when from there. Because Dusty started drinking. A lot. And he did a lot of real cringey shit like:

  1. Stop playing Cards Against Humanity to brag about the Pokemon he’d caught in Pokemon Go. In an unironic way.
  2. Stop playing Cards Against Humanity again to talk about how big his dick was. I’m not kidding. I cannot make this up.
  3. Make a note of mentioning how his wife (who was traveling at the time of the incident) didn’t want me at the party.
  4. Mention how much money he makes. Like, putting a specific number on it.

I just.

cringe
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It was about this time that he started making pretty sloppy passes at me. Like calling me beautiful over and over again. And draping himself all over me when I was trying to talk to another guest. Just…hands everywhere. Gross. So gross. I brushed him off and didn’t give it any more attention than that.

So Dusty, embarrassed, drunk, and impotently angry…decided to try and hurt me.

Wait. I’m Sorry. What?
You read me right. He was mad that I wasn’t into his unwanted paws being all over my beautiful temple of a body so he tried to hurt me.

How?

Not by shoving me, or saying mean things. No no. Worse:

He rolled up to Trevor, who has been my good friend for over ten years, and told Trevor that I was going to kick his ass. And is he going to let me dominate him like that? Is he going to let me just walk all over him like that? Is he just going to let me do that? Trevor has me by nine inches and fifty pounds, but that doesn’t matter. I didn’t actually say anything to Trevor, but that doesn’t matter. Trevor is really kind and would never hurt anyone, let alone ME of all people, but that doesn’t matter either.

Dusty tried to manipulate Trevor into causing me bodily harm. And I had no idea until about a week after the party when speaking to someone else about it.

If Trevor had been a less secure guy…Trevor could have really really hurt me. I’m tiny. There are domesticated house dogs that look me in the eye when they’re on all four legs. Peep holes are usually too high for me. I wear large children’s shirts. The Merman is 5’7″ and his shirts are dresses on me.

Just let that settle in for a second. When you’re sufficiently upset and confused, keep reading.

Yeah No I’m Mad too, Now. What Even?
I was about as shocked and upset as you all might be now. I had lots of questions. Trevor more or less asked Dusty to chill out and  calm himself.

Or, if you’re a Dodgeball fan:

dodgeball
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Dusty then fell apart and confessed that his life is falling apart. Here’s a comprehensive list of all the people who are surprised:

  1. No one.

Here’s where I get to my point. The moral of the story, if you will.

My Point
This is going to make me sound a little heartless. Please go here with me for a moment:

I don’t care that his life is falling apart.

I don’t mean I actually don’t care. I see that struggle and I honor it for being a struggle. I know how it feels to feel like everything is crumbling. I have been there. My problem is not with the struggle.

My problem is the way he chose to handle it:

  • You don’t see me for a hell of a long time.
  • You tell me your wife doesn’t want me there.
  • What…do you just…forget you’re married from then on?
  • You get way too drunk and hang all over me like the world’s shittiest meat garland.
  • You’re actually surprised that I don’t want you.
  • You try to get my friend to cause me bodily harm.

cameron
Photo credit

So…what? Because Dusty’s life sucks I have to pay for it with my body? Because Dusty is drunk, that excuses him from trying to get my ass beat? Because he thinks I’m pretty, that’s enough for him to do whatever he wants? Because he’s having a hard time, he’s justified in trying to cause me immanent harm? Fuck that. No. Ridiculous. Get it together.

Handle it. He needs to handle it.

What Does that Mean, Buttnana?
Could mean just about anything, really. Find a therapist. Go somewhere beautiful. Find a new hobby. Practice self care. Or, pardon my salt, how about don’t sexually act out with me. How about that.

How about growing up and confronting your feelings. Maybe do that too. Because what happened at that party was 100% unacceptable regardless of the circumstances. That was planned. A virtual stranger planned to cause me harm.

It is never ever okay to intentionally hurt people because you are hurting. I know that’s a hard thing to hear. But it’s not. No one ever says things like:

  • Oh I had no idea you liked me. Let me dab off my bloody lip and I’ll hop to that blow job.
  • I had no idea you were getting divorced. My mistake. Let me drive myself to the ER and I’ll have them take care of this broken bone.
  • Lost your job, you say? Well that explains why you buried this beer bottle in my face. No worries. 🙂 🙂

Why? Because it sounds ridiculous.

So in closing, don’t be that guy. I know it’s hard to handle things. I really do, believe me. But we have to draw a line at violence, be it physical or verbal or emotional. We have to.

Because aside from it being deplorable…it doesn’t even work. Being a dick does not solve the problem.

Go forth, and handle it. I believe in you. The links really are to helpful resources that I myself have used.

See y’all Friday. We’re doing a makeup look so be sure to come back! Stay classy.

❤ Buttnana

 

Faceday: Taking a Break

Why hello there, Lyfers. It’s Buttnana. For this week’s Faceday, we’re shifting gears.

I have acne. It’s hormonal, which means all the advice I get about water and green tea and not wearing makeup and wearing only some makeup and wearing makeup only on the third Sunday of the month when the moon is full and a virgin has been sacrificed by a good man to the gods of sebum…is bullshit. I take a testosterone blocker called Spironolactone because I’m hella queer and my body produces a shitload of testosterone even though I’m technically a cisgender woman. Spironolactone is what helps.

However. It’s not foolproof. And sometimes life happens. Which means I internalize all of my stress until it explodes out of my face.

Wow, Buttnana. That Was Graphic.
I know. Bear with me.

When this happens, I do not want anyone to see me at all ever because I’m fifteen years into my acne career and it is never not embarrassing. This is especially true considering part of this blog is about makeup.

So I’m giving myself a break. In a radical act of self-love, I’m going to adjust to my circumstances and I am going to give myself permission to step away from makeup for a moment.

What does that have to do with you?

Well, My Lovely Bunch of Coconuts…
It’s okay to give yourself a break with all of this. The prepping and the priming and the steady hand and the brushes and all of it. No one ever said to me “hey Buttnana…do you just want to not? Because it’s cool if you do,” and I feel like that would have been immensely helpful.

We’re often boxed into women who wear makeup vs. women who don’t as a lifestyle and it can be hard to step out of those boxes.

But the thing is…there are no boxes. Not really.

We are allowed to change our minds when it comes to makeup. The way we choose to express ourselves. It’s no one’s damn business but ours.

Sometimes I find I need permission, though. Because anxiety. Consider this your permission. I am giving you permission to look at your makeup bag or your train case or your entire vanity and give it the finger if that’s what you need.

My face is breaking out and it hurts. It’s what I need right now.

So This is My Buttnana Pledge to My Daaamn Self
When contouring becomes a source of stress, I’m just not gonna do it.

If I don’t feel like doing your eyebrows until they are fresh to death…I’m just gonna not do it.

I have eight billion eyeshadows. And I don’t have to wear them if I don’t want to.

When I look at my brushes and they stress me out, I’m just not going to deal with them.

I am allowed to look long and hard at my naked face until I am just as in love with it as my man is. Until I don’t see a problem with my freckles and dark circles and acne scars and enlarged pores.

I am also allowed to avoid any and all mirrors for a day if that’s what I want.

And you know what? It’s okay. It’s totally fine if thats what I need. ❤

It’s totally fine if that’s what you need, too. Life calls for adjustments. Adjusting is okay.

Taking a break is okay.

I, and you, will be okay. Please remember that.

Be kind to yourselves, y’all. I’ll see you Wednesday.

❤ ❤
Buttnana

Wokesday: Mental Autopilot

Happy Hump Day, Lyfers. It’s me. For this segment of Wokesday, I’m talking about what I like to call Mental Autopilot AND, so this blog isn’t one paragraph, about the last time I used it.

The Hell is Mental Autopilot?
Good question that I totally didn’t anticipate! Mental Autopilot is a term I’d like to coin to describe the action of doing certain things without being emotionally invested in them. I don’t mean “emotionally invested” in that bullshit loaded “oh ha ha ha look at how rational I am, with my lack of emotions and huge surplus of pizza rolls, someone please hold me, I’m so alone,” way. I mean it in the “I do not have enough emotional bandwidth to deal with this so I’m just going to mechanically do it,” way.

Mental Autopilot is great for people like me who have shit to do even though their feelings (I like to call them my fee-fees) might not be cooperating that day. It basically guarantees certain things like basic hygiene and cleaning happen even though The Eternal Void of My Unending Despair rages on inside of me.

When Does Mental Autopilot Happen?
It’s different for everyone, which is a real cop-out of an answer. I personally have a hell of a time with transitions because they unsettle me in a way that leads me to question the meaning of life and everything in it like an asshole. And I can’t just not bathe, so I disengage from myself and do it anyway. I’ve also used it for much shorter periods of time like when:

  • Making a phone call.
  • Answering a phone call.
  • Paying my bills.
  • Cleaning bathrooms.
  • Talking friends off the ledge.
  • Going to medical appointments.
  • Dealing with grieving people.
  • Not punching my great Uncle into next year when he once grabbed and squeezed my thigh at a family gathering.
  • Breaking up with someone.
  • Writing papers in college.
  • Checking my grades.

See how some of those things are big, and some are small? Well, all of those things have two things in common: they made me very, very anxious, and they were unavoidable. It’s an unstoppable force (life) hitting a soft and sensitive object (me).

So When Was the Last Time you Flipped that Switch, Buttnana?
Two days ago. And I realize what I am about to tell you is sad and morbid and uncomfortable. So I’m coping with humor again. Content notice: death of a pet.

The Scene: I had roughly 48 hours notice to fly somewhere (yes I made it safely). I had a couple things planned for my week that I had to do all in one day as a result. And I had some  personal stuff go awry at the same time because when it rains, it pours.

I was sleeping at 9AM when the doorbell rang. I answered it to see my neighbor. Who was crying. Hysterically. Why? One of their cats had been run over and, unfortunately, had died. They needed my help moving the cat from the street because I am more able-bodied than they.

Monday morning and I had to help my neighbor move a body. *beep boop* Mental Autopilot engaged.

I went outside and immediately locked myself out of the house with no shoes, no bra, no phone. Excellent.

Between the two of us it took a hot second to retrieve a plastic bag for the cat because we were both hobbling over the asphalt.

Plastic bag in hand, I limped back to my house to grab a piece of wood to move the cat and promptly stepped in a pile of shit. Awesome. Me neighbor was still crying and trying to put their other cats in the house. And their dogs were just. Fucking. Barking. Unending borks forever. I felt like I was in one of those war scenes where someone’s numbly making their way through death and destruction everywhere except there was only one death and one-and-a-half destroyed people.

Between the sharp-ass asphalt and the morning dew on the grass my feet were already numb when I knelt next to the cat in the street. Not a gruesome death, but a death nonetheless. The wood I’d grabbed was too thick. Useless. I could feel my neighbor watching me, though, so I couldn’t like, make it look like I was trying not to touch the corpse of their friend. What kind of asshole would that make me?

So instead of pausing to think about how fucking ridiculous this whole situation was, Mental Autopilot empowered me to say a little prayer for the kitty because she was my neighbor’s good friend, and gently lift her into the bag with my bare Buttnana hands.

My neighbor was still inconsolable when I limped back to them, trying to keep the smeary, bloody side of the bag facing behind me. And it was so, so morbidly surreal how heavy that bag was. I never thought of cats being anything but weightless, you know?

We had to hide the body from their young daughter. Because what’s moving a body without hiding it, right? Well, while they were unlocking the gate, I heard one of my dogs give a mighty operatic wail because he could hear me, but couldn’t see me and he didn’t like that. I said, “Oh I know, Slob,” which is a well-known and loved nickname for this little guy:

And my neighbor…I shit you not…stopped crying to say “Oh I know, my back yard is a mess.”

I’m sorry.
What did I just hear?

MY NEIGHBOR THOUGHT I WAS CALLING THEM A SLOB. OH MY GOD. Like I took that moment to really kick them while they were down. Like it was in any way appropriate for me to remark on the condition of their back yard at that moment. We were moving a fucking body, not hosting a garden party.

I was mortified and my hurried reassurances that I was talking to my dog did nothing to undo the dark solidity of that moment. Holy shit.

We secreted the body where it would be safe from the dogs, because there’s nothing more morbid than that thought, right? “Yeah no I don’t know where the cat is but it has nothing to do with what the dogs just ate.”

I helped them corral their other cats into the house. So I touched a dead cat before I touched live cats that day, which is weird to think about.

My neighbor let me call my brother to let me back in the house. But not before I stepped in a second pile of shit. Bruh.

Mental Autopilot: When you just need to do The Thing. You can always drink about it later.

Anywho
I’ll see you lovelies Friday! I have some tutoring to do before then. Wanna tell me about your experiences with Mental Autopilot? Go for it.

Love always,
Buttnana

 

 

 

Faceday: Using Eyeshadow to Contour

Heyyy Lyfers. Hope all is well. It’s time for another edition of Faceday where we talk about makeup and beauty and things like that. This week, I want to show you a trick that I use to contour my face because I am deathly pale but I still want to cut a fool with my cheekbones.

What the Hell is Contouring, Buttnana?
Contouring is darkening the preexisting shadows in your face and blending them to sharpen your features. However you choose to contour is your choice, so it’s cool to play around with it for awhile just to see what’s up. Because I’m so queer, most of the shadows in my face are already there so I like to sharpen the sides of my nose and hollows of my cheeks.

Okay Cool. So Why Eyeshadow, Weirdo?
Because I’m so, so pale almost all contouring shades are too dark and too warm for me. My coloring is very cool, so the shadows in my face are also cool. See how that works? Ideally, you want to see the shadows in your face as colors instead, and then find a contouring shade that looks like those shadows. And you know what comes in eight billion colors? Eyeshadow. Hello, custom contouring powder.

I’m using this NYX matte eyeshadow in the shade S.O.S., which they describe as being a “matte cool taupe.” Ideally, mattes are where it’s at because they don’t reflect light. Since you’re darkening/defining/carving out shadows in your face to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies, matte shadows won’t reflect light and make your contours disappear depending on the angle.

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Now, this shade works for ME. For one Buttnana. Likely, this shade will not look quite the same on you and that’s totally cool. That’s what swatches are for. And speaking of, here’s S.O.S. next to The Balm’s “Balm Desert.”

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See how S.O.S. looks much more subtle and cool next to Balm Desert? That’s exactly what I want because that’s what color the shadows in my face are.

Before We Begin
I WILL say that this shadow is super subtle so it takes some building. That doesn’t bother me personally but if you’re looking for a one and done sort of thing you might want something darker.

I also want for us to be good scientists, so I’m doing the rest of my face first so we can focus on what exactly contouring does. These are the products I used to do the rest of my face:

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And this is what I looked like before I contoured:

How to Contour

After the rest of my face was done, I used these two brushes from BH Cosmetics. I use the smaller angled brush for the sides of my nose and the larger brush for the hollows of my cheeks.

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In a perfect contouring world you want something that’s got sharp edges for maximum control in application. But if you get epic results with a fluffier brush then go for it. This really is more preference than technique.

I personally just load up the brush and draw on the lines. Observe my hawk nose:

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And my Marilyn Manson cheeks:

Lololol I look ridiculous. BUT. This is what blending is for. Because we’re using something pretty subtle, this is the easy part. I used a flat top kabuki brush to soften the edges of my cheek contour, and I used my fingertips to pat in the lines on the sides of my nose.

Now, this looks kind of cool or whatever…

Until you check out the side by side comparison:

Yaaaas contour Queeeeen. Dat definition tho. Note how I literally became a bigger person after I contoured. And note how I don’t LOOK like I drew all over my face and then blended it in. I just have some definition where I didn’t before. Just a little somethin’ somethin’ extra. Because I as a person am a little extra.

So there you have it! You can achieve pretty dope contour with eyeshadow.This is an everyday look that doesn’t look like it’s trying but totes is. Just like my haircut.

Let me know if you want me to model contouring in different and more dramatic contours. I’m off to hit up a family dinner and then go see some old friends. Here, have this ultra rare Buttnana smile for the road:

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Have a good one, y’all. Stay classy!

❤ Buttnana

Wokesday: The Master Debater

Good day, Lyfers. It’s Buttnana. Welcome to the first installment of Wokesday. The hell is Wokesday? It’s the Wednesday segment where I briefly discuss some aspect of social interaction. The key word in that last sentence is “briefly” because my goal is to give y’all the quick and dirty about a Buttnana observation.

Today’s Wokesday topic is the Master Debater. Who are they? What do they do? Most importantly (my favorite point), why is it important to not be this person?

What in the Hell is a Master Debater?
Glad you asked. The Master Debater is a person who takes it upon themselves to open debate-like discourse where none was invited. Or, if philosophy-talk tickles your fancy, the Master Debater sees a phenomenological argument (where someone describes a thing that has happened), has an old-timey conniption fit for whatever reason, and turns it into an analytic one (where every component of an experience has to be logically sound in order for it to be admissible to them).

Okay, so what the Hell does that Mean, Buttnana?
Don’t worry, fam. I got choo. Buckle in, because mama is lowkey super pissed but copes with humor.

The Master Debater thinks everything is up for debate, all the time, because they love science and skepticism and they’re warriors for the truth.

The Master Debater misuses logical fallacies while also being one big giant walking logical fallacy.

The Master Debater loves rationality above all else. Their rationality is deeply and problematically biased, but they called it rationality so they get to occupy a place of intellectual neutrality/epistemological invisibility.

The Master Debater tells YOU to calm down in an argument. They know full well that that’s never worked. They just want you to get upset so they can continue to use the +3 Shield of Self-Defined Rationality.

The Master Debater makes you educate them. Always. They can’t be bothered to Google anything. The Belle Jar did an incredible piece on this phenomenon.

The Master Debater asks rhetorical, intellectual questions about someone’s lived emotional experiences and doesn’t realize how profoundly insensitive and inappropriate that is.

The Master Debater loves to be the Devil’s Advocate as though they and the Devil are good buddies that help each other out of a jam every once in awhile.

The Master Debater does what I like to call the Shitlord Bait and Switch. Observe this faithfully paraphrased example:
MD: Does philosophy have a woman problem? Or do women have a philosophy problem?
Me: I think philosophy has a woman problem. I am a woman who has studied philosophy. I have lived experience in that area. Talk to other women in philosophy and see what they think.
MD: I just wonder if women have a philosophy problem.
See how they asked a question about a group they weren’t part of, then ignored that person entirely when they ventured an answer? It’s because they didn’t want an actual answer. They wanted to be the Criss Angel of rhetoric and flex their Master Debater skills.

The Master Debater wants you to reinforce their worldview through the lens of pretending to care about your worldview. You know, like the person who asks you how you’re doing so they can talk about how they’re doing.

The Master Debater’s definition of a “fact” is anything they want to be true. Your lived experience is not a fact. What people have said and done to you is not a fact. What THEY said or did to you is not a fact. However. Anything they can infer from what you’ve said, even if you didn’t say it, is a fact. The mere event of them having that thought qualifies anything they think as a fact. Because they’re the Criss Angel of rhetoric.

The Master Debater is lowkey this person,

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but is also, unfortunately, this person,

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and then turns into this person later.

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The Master Debater isn’t going to like what I said here, then cite the fact that I use humor to make a point to prove my writing is substandard, serves no purpose at all, and then condescendingly suggest that I edit my work a little more 🙂 😉 :).

The Master Debater JAQs off onto every available surface with the frustrated fervor of a mating raccoon.

The Master Debater is going to gaslight the shit out of you. This is super cruel and dangerous, so please be kind to yourself and talk to someone if you’re feeling unsafe.

The Master Debater acknowledges their emotions as valid, but dismisses everyone else’s as frivolous and not necessary to the discussion at hand.

Oh my God, the Master Debater says “I’m sorry you feel that way.” And actually thinks that’s an apology.

The Master Debater, honestly, is a budget-ass lawyer who kicks in the door to your support meeting, turns it into a monster truck rally, blames you for the monster truck rally being loud and destructive, leaves because they can’t handle how emotional you’re being, then posts to reddit how lonely it is at the top and sends pictures of their genitals to people who didn’t ask for them.

The Master Debater is a fucking charlatan. They’re a bunch of god damned frauds, and they know it.

Well, Shit. How do I Not be that Person?
I’m going to give you three really really easy things you can do so as to avoid being the Master Debater.
1. If someone is talking about an experience they’ve had, online or in-person, listen to them.
2. Err on the side of being charitable. The worst that could happen is that you learn something.
3. Remember that there are groups of people who have way different experiences than you do because of their race, class, sex, gender identification, sexual orientation, and/or religion. They might stand in direct conflict with what you think you know to be true. But you need to accept that people’s experiences will differ from yours and that doesn’t necessarily make them not-real or made up.

Aaand that’s all for me today, lovelies. I’m off to enjoy breakfast before I confront my one mortal fear: the dentist. Stay classy. ❤

–Buttnana

P.S. Do you want to hear my thoughts on more stuff? Do you have experience with Master Debaters? Let me know in the comments below.