Are you calling me a liar?
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to go to sleep late one night in your apartment above the factory, in an urban city in 2014 and then wake up in a very strange situation where you are that same girl, but you’re in a castle; it’s the 1500’s and its daytime?
I know … we’ve all wondered that at some stage right? Or am I just suffering burnout from a crazy busy week and altogether too many coffees (like, at least 3) after lunch? I swear though … that’s what happened to me. Are you calling me a liar?
D’ya know how I knew it was the 1500’s? Because obviously when I realised I was in a castle, I decided something was way weird here and I should have a look around. I could hear lots of noise coming from down this great big long hallway, so I snuck down it, peered around the corner and I could see all these men in funny tights and big coats and they were all thronging round this big fat guy who had a crown on his head and little piggy eyes. Now I did history at school, and I have seen many a mugshot of him, so I recognised King Henry the VIIIth straight away (or was it Kim Dot Com?) My heart started beating to its absolute limit in fright and I thought to myself “get the hell out of here … don’t let them see you for dust.” But just as I spun round to make my escape, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and a gruff voice said “now what do we have here?” Pretty bloody obvious I would have thought … we have a terrified woman from 2014 wondering how the hell she got stuck wearing a nightie in some freezing cold castle with a bunch of men in tights? At least I wasn’t naked I guess – high five for small mercies.
“What’s your name girl?” he said, “Palette” I said (OK … so it wasn’t smart, but I’m not good under pressure!) “What’s yours?” I shot back. His eyes narrowed and he looked mad. “My name’s Blackheart, not that it’s any of your business. What sort of name is Palette anyway?” “It’s French,” I stammered, my heart beating faster than it does when you get caught having a nooner by your boyfriend’s mother. Blackheart leaned forward and as he sneered at me, I was treated to a blast of tooth-decay-smelling breath that would make a monster from the darkside shrink away in disgust. “French aye … so how ‘bout you show me a little trick? That Anne Boleyn woman learned some good tricks in France I hear.” I can think of a bloody trick alright, I thought to myself, as I started to panic mildly (OK, not mildly, wildly) … but it’s not one you’re going to like you foul-breathed beast. As Blackheart took another step toward me, my ears suddenly began to buzz; my vision faded and then it seemed like much later, when all my senses came back, I was lying in my own bed in the apartment above the factory again; with a faint smell of tooth decay wafting around my room …
(A crazy story featuring Urban Decay’s Naked 3 palette)