These Ten Makeover Tips are Satanic AF

If after transcribing the previous evening’s blog, Britannica wishes to rehabilitate the wreck of a man you’ve become, or is likely just bored, and wants to “become her” for you, then the time has arrived. The time has arrived to get that girl a makeover!

One: If a framed photograph of Catherine on her horse Moonbeam leads Brittanica to revelate, “That’s almost like my natural hair colour, ” drive Britannica to Hollywood Hair Studios in your father’s Ford F150. Recoil in terror should the colourist be Jenya! Breathe relieved sigh when Jenya fails to recognize you. Breathe frustrated sigh when Jenya says damage wrought upon Britannica’s hair by retail-grade dyes means the recurrence of a Catherinian state of grace will require months, maybe years. Fork over $215 of John’s bribe money to bootstrap the process.

Two: Ask the piercing man if an eyebrow ring might sully Britannica’s eyebrow where it once sullied Catherine’s. If the piercing man will not pierce beneath the hair-cooking stove, citing Hollywood Hair Studios’ rules and regs, slide him a little grease to ignore the regs.

Three: If even after sufficient cooking her hair lacks lustre, book a consult at the Richard Horowitz Wig Studio. When a fine wig is found, take a step back, make that little cinematographer’s rectangle of thumbs and forefingers, and exclaim, “Fine, fine!” Embrace co-proprietor David Horowitz, apparent lover to Richard.

Four: If your mother is baking with her church group, grab your father by his lapels, shake him about as required, and remark, “Her old clothes are here somewhere you old booze hound!”

Five: Find a bounty of fresh and clean halters and jeans in the attic, all still smelling of Tommy Girl perfume, reminding you of both the Sault’s Tommy Hilfiger craze of the early aughts and also of your sister Catherine. Strip Britannica of her Heathen halter top and adorn her in these hallowed vestments. Should Brittanica resent your throwing of her t-shirt into the trash, remind her that she has never listened to David Bowie. Take a step back and gaze upon a nearly Catherinian image. Toss Campus Crew tank tops in the air and quote T.S. Eliot, “These fragments I have shored against my ruins. ”44

Six: If lapel shaking has set about your father’s Smirnoff guzzling, he’s forgotten his fearful-pointing towards the attic, ipso facto, upon seeing Britannica pierced and wigged and wearing a hallowed Campus Crew tank-top, he must exclaim, “She’s back! She’s returned! You brought her back, David. I thought you were a good-for-nothing soand-so but you brought her back!” He will then rise from 44 (Eliot, 1988) his knees to hug Brittanica, burdening Britannica with a depth of discomfort your father’s inebriation prevents him from comprehending.

Seven: As you nuzzle the yellow Campus Crew t-shirt, certain you’ve achieved something of alchemical worth, finally resurrected some tangible remnant of Catherine’s corporeal memory, hear Britannica say in a voice spooky as action at a distance with Catherine-song, “I’m becoming her. I feel the transmogrification is almost complete. ”

Eight: Wonder where sub-literate Britannica would have heard a word like ' transmogrify. ' Recall Transmogrification Blues #2, a certain concept album you’ve heard more times than you would care to. Wonder if even this “tiny and almost impalpable” lilt reminiscent of Catherine’s lilt is but another of the Infernal Serpent’s grand deceptions. Wonder why your son’s namesake neglected sound when he wrote: But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection. ”45 45 (Proust, 1871-1922 (2003)

Nine: Put this question—as well as your abandoned family, pyres, dreams of arrest warrants, dreams of surely there’s some bone dust remaining by the fire pit—out of mind by indulging in some Tostito’s brand nuclear yellow Con Queso without the chips, with just some saltines.

Ten: If your mother returns to notice the saltines left out + Britannica’s overt transmogrification and politely asks you to leave, request a ride to the Highway 17-situated Haleybury Motel, not a stone’s throw from the suburb where Alan Raval may be murdered when time permits.