I have no idea when I received this bottle of black nail polish, but I know it was before I moved to NYC, so that makes it very old. I noticed it has started to take a turn for the worse, and decided it needed a proper send-off.
Black is the color of sadness. The color of punk rock. The color of chic.
The color of sheep. I am, without a doubt, the black sheep of my family. I often gripe that they don’t understand me, but I think they actually do. It was my mother, after all, who gifted me this black nail polish oh so many, many years ago.
I don’t always paint my fingernails black, but when I do, you can bet it’s for a reason.
Sometimes, I am depressed. I paint my fingernails black to tell the world there is something sad inside me. I am all colors, I am the absence of color, I cannot express, inside I am black.
Sometimes, I am angry, defiant, punk rocker. I am Johnny Rotten, screaming “No Feelings!” into the microphone. Accent nail of choice? Middle finger, of course.
Sometimes, I just feel good. I feel myself. I feel strong, bold, confident.
Whenever I feel so undeniably me, you can bet I’m back in black, baby.