To me, there is nothing more terrifying than a sharp, black-tipped eyeliner pencil heading straight for my unprotected, struggling-not-to-blink eyeball. To my best friend, Missy, there is nothing more amusing.
Sure, from where she’s standing, it must be fairly comical, I’ll admit. Not only are my eyes welling up with tears, partly from the overwhelming stress of the situation, partly from being stabbed repeatedly with that jagged, hateful pencil, but my head, in one last-ditch effort to save itself, keeps trying to escape the pencil by slowly easing itself further and further away. So, by the time I feel ready to face that black tip of death, my head is facing upwards toward the ceiling, like I’m waiting for a dentist to come prod and poke my gums with his sharp, sadistic instruments. The only element separating my dear friend Missy from a dentist, at this point, would be the mask. I’ve always had this theory that they wear masks so that their patients won’t see how horribly disfigured and fluoride-deprived their own smiles are. Anyway.
We were discussing the worst moment of my life: eyes staring helplessly at the ceiling, noticing a curiously-shaped brown stain, while Missy towers over me with a look of triumph on her face, pointing the eyeliner pencil directly at me like an accusatory finger. Triumph, because she now knows I have nowhere else to go, unless I want to topple backwards over the chair, where, with my luck, I would probably fall face-down and my eye would be pierced by a piece of shrapnel, or something. Stranger things have happened.