rev:text
| - Sephora is the what Orwell's 1984 would have been like if it took place in a makeup outlet instead of a dystopian Britain.
A large, spacious warehouse occupied by at least a half dozen identically dressed employees, separated only by their choice of eye shadow, all programmed to say the same four or five phrases. Some of the smarter ones know how to shuffle the order of the phrases. Some don't.
Employee 1: "Can I help you with anything?"
No. I'm good.
Employee 2: "Can I help you with anything?"
No, didn't you just hear me? I'm good.
Employee 3: "Would you like a basket for all that?"
Actually, I would, thanks.
Employee 3: "Can I help you with anything?"
...
Seriously, though. Why do you need six people at a time in a makeup shop? It's makeup, it's not Sam's Club. You're never going to need an extra pair of hands to lift a crate of palletes.
Why are you staring at me? Oh. Shit. Am I wearing makeup?
Haha. I didn't even notice that. Man, am I glad you caught that.
How ridiculous would I have looked wearing makeup... in a makeup store?
You wouldn't know this from my pointless ramblings, but I'm actually quite the Sephora whore. With the exception of one excursion to a MAC Cosmetics in Redwood City, CA, all of my makeup has been purchased from them, and usually at this location.
Egad. Does that mean...
Yes, I'm an attention whore and just like to complain about shit. Probably because my parents didn't love me. Oh well. This Urban Decay eye shadow makes up for it. Kinda.
I must be stopped.
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