M: What year is this?
E: I dunno, M. The year two thousand and SHAME, maybe. There has been a catastrophic fracture in the goop/time continuum. What are we doing here? What are we talking about? Hang on, who are you, and why have you got durian peel in your hair?
M: Wait, it’s all coming back to me now… One minute, I was at the hairdresser getting my head steamed, then the next..
E: Yes? Yes?
E: What is it, M?
E: Ok. Enough of the AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhs. This isn’t getting any beauty dissected, and, full disclosure: I don’t think I have used moisturiser for about 6 months. WHAT HAPPENED TO US?
M: I DON’T KNOW. IT’S ALL SO FOGGY
E: Oh dear, oh dear. Did Mr Armani abduct you? Or have you been sniffing dugongs again?
M: Probably, because I appear to be living in Cambodia now.
E: Oh, M.
M: Which is really fucking helpful, on the beauty front, let me tell you. When I’m not busy mopping up my facial sweat, I’m picking spiders from my hair.
E: A thousand ways with banana leaves. Elephant massage. Actually, that sounds great.
M: S’OK. I have accumulated many expensive fripperies during my time in my padded cell*. (*Singapore)
E: Phew. I am still in Belgium, living in an attic and talking to myself. I got some fripperies free in June and am still eking them out. I don’t think I’ve worn makeup since August. My nails are sort of friable, chewed claws.
M: Dude. I have NGO worker legs. Not that I’m an NGO worker, mind. Just hairy like one.
E: Hahahahahahaha. ‘NGO worker legs’ Is this a defined term? “Get the NGO look!”
M: We are officially the worst beauty bloggists ever.
E: Yes. We are. We are not fit to clean beauty’s toilets. But we can change. It is January, the month of possibility. And I’ve got stuff to goop about.
M: What do you want to goop about?
E: Well, M, I am glad you asked me that. I want to Goop about some Dermologica scrub (free). And about how I don’t understand Khiel’s. And tell you about some body cream I wish to marry, from “”"Frédéric Malle”"”" who is not a person, but a sinister front for some French cult.
M: Like Jean-Louis David, which is just 3 random names pulled out of a hat.
E: Yes! It could just as easily be Marc Olivier François. Maybe I should start a hairdresser called that? And also, there is some weird ass shit you sent me from Singapore, including what appear to be several ‘mould your own death mask’ kits. And I need to talk about My Summer Of Scent Samples, which sounds like an extra boring indie coming of age movie. How about you?
M: I have: crazy neon pink lipstick of amazingness. Secret lotion that smells of vinegar mushrooms. A multitude of shitty mascaras. The best hair serum EVER. And the solution to angry monkey face.
E: COR. That’s a whole load of (slightly troubling) goop. The solution? You have CURED angry monkey face?
M: It does not, surprisingly, involve monkeys. I have been getting my kicks where I can, E.
E: Fair enough, elephant fondler.
M: Oh god. So much to do. I’m exhausted already. Can I go lie down now?
E: I suppose so, you lazy arse.
M: First I will do my ritualistic Sweeping of The Room for Giant Spiders. You?
E: I think I will adjust my Bra of Acute Rib Compression. Oh, M, I forgot to tell you.
M: I think you’re mistaking this for a fashion blog.
E: It was a really, really big hole. It encompassed a whole buttock. So: ritualistic spider sweeping and minimiser bra adjustments? This is our brave new 2012 new leaf and other things with ‘new’ in them?
M: In your FACE, 2012. We are back. And we will goop you.
E: Goop ON.
M: Is that like: walk on? said to a horse? (pony botherer)
E: I was aiming for “game on”, but now you’ve said that, it just sounds pitiful. Start as we mean to go on!