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3-D Lashes, Jamberry & Other Ways to Drive Away Facebook Friends
Hey there! I noticed your friend request on Wednesday, and while I barely recognized you from high school, I thought, “Why not?” Fast forward 19 seconds, and I was greeted with the delightful news that I had been added to your “Extra Special Super Sensual Scented Thirty-One Thrive Jamberry Jamboree!” Facebook group. Oh, the joy.
Yes, me and 400 of your closest pals.
Here’s the thing—NO. You seemed nice, or at least you did for those brief 19 seconds, so let’s get straight to the point: I’m not buying any of the stuff you’re selling. Jewelry, nails, skincare, candles, LIFESTYLE. Before you get your $75 CAbi panties in a twist, allow me to elaborate: I’ve played that game. I’ve spent my money. I used to be agreeable, too, but you know what happens next? It. Never. Ends. I’m done. I don’t even buy from people I ACTUALLY KNOW anymore, so take your sales pitch elsewhere.
I totally understand your desire for independence and your quest to make money from home. I’m thrilled that you’ve found your so-called “sisterhood.” Sounds like you’ve stumbled into a fantastic cult—er, company—good for you! Just keep my wallet out of your plans.
I will lose it if I get added to one more Facebook group. Seriously, what’s with all these groups? Am I your friend or merely a prospect? No means no. I don’t want to attend yet another neighborhood party to make small talk with someone I’m pretty sure I gave the finger to in the carpool line earlier today. All while I’m guilted into purchasing a purse I’ll never use, just because I stress-binged your spicy Buffalo chicken dip for the umpteenth time. The promise of “plenty of booze” isn’t a draw. I can drink at home, trust me, and without pants. You probably expect me to wear a bra, too. Not happening.
You know who never asks me to dress up? Amazon Prime.
No, I don’t want to “just try” your free samples. I don’t need a fajita pan, let alone turquoise from your kitchen island. Who wears that much turquoise unless they’re ready to retire in Santa Fe? I really don’t want to try on clothes in your hall closet. A gathering of chatty women and 30 kinds of smelly candles makes me want to hurl. You lost 30 pounds on Shakeology? Nice. Good for you. But let’s be real, those shakes taste like vegan sadness. Rubbing oil on my neck isn’t going to magically fix my thyroid. Oh, are you a doctor now too? And your Ford Escape is your office? Seems legit.
Also? I don’t want 3-D lashes. Your face looks like a tarantula exhibit. Someone had to say it. “It Works!” Does it? If one body wrap worked for you, that’s fabulous. But guess what else works? Spanx. Just bought some online. Pantsless. Boom.
I’m not trying your skincare. I’m not committing to 30 days. I could smear Elmer’s glue on my face for 30 days and see a major difference. I have Photoshop, too. I’ll stick with my Olay from the grocery store, thank you. Now I have to navigate the aisles like a ninja, in case you’re lurking nearby, ready to pounce with your “amazing opportunity” to host one of these nightmare parties. Please, for the love of all that is holy, just STFU about your MLM, okay?
But what really irks me (there’s an oil for that!!) isn’t the parties or products. Some are probably great. It’s the way friendships are exploited to recruit new members that genuinely grosses me out. You’re selling your friends, plain and simple. The whole thing feels like a coconut-scented pyramid scheme, no matter how pretty the packaging. This is just my perspective, of course; I could be wrong. In fact, TELL me I’m wrong! I’d love to hear your success stories and how those dolla dolla bills are rolling in. Also, how much money has gone out? Tell me how happy you are as a “super successful MOMTREPRENEUR,” and I’ll try not to twitch every time you say that word.
No rush; feel free to call me after your all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii.
So, to sum it all up… if I get one more Jamberry party invite, I’m going to Jamberry my foot up your backside.
Alright then—great chat! Bye for now.