Robin's Life (aka Witless)

Robin's Life is not what she expected it to be... Do you ever think, 'This can't be my life! It can't!' I do, almost every minute of every day. After twenty-six years I've discovered only two basic truths. Number one is that make-up changes based on the proximity to my apartment. The second is that the whole world knows there's something more to life; that is, the whole world except one: me. The make-up thing is, I think, the more disturbing one. In the bathroom mirror it all looks flawless; I'm a goddess of beauty and sexiness. Just out the door, it looks great. A couple of blocks later and it starts to go a bit weird. A few more blocks and drag queens-and not the gorgeous-could-seduce-any-straight-guy sort, but the sort that look like they've just been 'dragged' facedown across the MAC counter of Macy's while being forcibly removed from the store for trying to steal an INC dress so s/he could perform "I Will Survive" at Amateurs' Night sort-start asking me for tips. The type my roommate calls 'Scare Queens.' Three Metro stops out, the Scare Queens are kicking down the train's doors with their Payless Size 14s as the snotty woman's voice on the tinny speakers is screaming for people to run for their lives. My only comfort is that it's just make-up. I mean, my friend Tammy has the same problem, but with her underwear. Some of the panty lines she gets look more like shelves. I mean, this one pair actually made her bottom look like it had a cliff across it. I would have told her but the mini she was wearing, you know, did nothing to help, and I don't think it could have handled it all on its own, if you know what I mean. It didn't matter after all because she ended up meeting her boyfriend that night and they've been going out for three years. So the make-up thing shouldn't be that disturbing. I'm beginning to get the feeling that everyone has read ahead in the book of life, and I've lost my bookmark. So I've had to start over from the beginning and guess what, I'm not catching up. I don't have a real job, a real boyfriend, a real place to live, or any real prospects on any of these fronts. But right now that's the least of my worries. Yesterday I received unflinching proof that I am a failure at life. I got fired from a temp agency. Do you have any idea how hard that is in this town! My last placement sent me packing because I accidentally forwarded an internal e-mail about billing irregularities to the law firm's entire client list. Why a temp should get a memo like that in the first place is beyond me. The agency told me that they would not have any assignments for me anymore. I've decided that was the last straw! I am going to get a proper job. Or better, a career. I'll find a boyfriend; no wait, I'm going to get myself a lover. It's 1997, I'm a modern chic, and I'm going to find the best, most glamorous life...just as soon as the world stops spinning and I can get out of bed.