Door to door, door to door. In your little pink car you drive and drive. You see things on the road. You see things in people’s small dilapidated houses. You can’t seem to sell a single tube of mascara but you collect sad stories from depressed, aging housewives like precious little things. The images on the catalog of beautiful cake faced girls repel you and your customers but there’s really nothing you can do about it. Sleeping in your car you dream of applying lipstick until your lips crack and blood spills. You still have 12 tubes of lipstick that must be sold by friday.