A Touch of Texas chainsaw mascara

Gliding down from the television ledge, I felt the morning desperately lacked proper ambiance. I slipped between two heavy vintage hardcovers on the bottom shelf and uncovered a forgotten ornamental brass hand mirror resting flat amid the gloom. It was coated in a respectable veil of velvety dust, but darling, an icon always checks her angles. Leaning forward, I dragged one pointed fingernail straight through the grey grime across the reflective glass, clearing a gleaming crescent to catch my reflection. Much better. One simply cannot greet the day without knowing the eyeliner remains lethal.