Broke-Ass was all ready to make good on her promise to talk about beans and how to convert their soaked selves into week-long meals, when she stopped and had a think. The result of which was: Fuck beans.

Broke-Ass is well fucking nigh sick of talking and thinking about beans, particularly as they invariably evoke comparisons involving hills and her life. Plus, she is about to turn 43 next Wednesday, so the combination of that impending anniversary and fucking chickpeas brought her to the mirror to have a look. And what she saw was: old. And tired. And balls-out haggard.

You mightn’t think that a person such as Broke-Ass would give a tinker’s damn about her appearance. You would be wrong. So wrong. Indeed, Broke-Ass devotes inordinate blocks of time considering clothes and cosmetics, how she can get her hands on some, and how depressingly fruitless such meditations are. But she’ll be damned if she’s not going to get her hands on some hyaluronic acid facial serum.

Hyaluronic acid, for those who don’t know or give a shit, is the juicy substance one’s own human body manufactures to keep the joints and skin all lubed up. As one ages, and one certainly fucking does, native stores of hyaluronic acid are mercilessly depleted and you get saggy and wrinkles–and it doesn’t help if you’re stressed and you smoke, but who can help that? If, however, you inject it into your face, as people are wont to do via the wonders of fillers such as Restalyne and Juvederm, those wrinkles flat-out disappear for about 6-8 months. And then you have to pay another 800 bucks to do the whole thing over again.

To say that such a routine is of out of the question for Broke-Ass is to say Two Lumps of Sugar will hurl a block at his sisters’ heads and think it’s a pretty funny thing to have thought of doing. In full disclosure, Broke-Ass did, several times, barter for such injections. But that’s a whole other fucking story, one that now seems like a distant, golden memory of childhood. It was worth it. Broke-Ass stands fully behind the Buddha when he said that sometimes the smile is the cause, not the result, of happiness. Moreover, while she despises that fucking Nazi Coco Chanel in every other respect, Broke-Ass does heed her recommendation never to walk out of the house without a nice lipstick on. Shit, when life is bleak, a little pretty on the outside goes a long way to staving off stress-puking. Just ask Broke-Ass’s friend, the Fantabulous Nat, who wears body glitter, like all the time. WORD.

Back to hyalauronic acid. It turns out that, when mixed into a facial serum and applied to old areas, this soul-buoying substance will push out wrinkles for the duration of the time that it remains affixed to the skin. It also turns out that facial serums involving hyalauronic acid cost as much as a weeks’ grocery bill. Again: Two Lumps, blocks, & etc. So, the question alighted: How does one make this serum?

Funny you should ask. Lo and behold, it appears that hyalauronic acid comes in capsules you can buy in the hippie section of supermarkets, or far, far cheaper yet, in bulk powder form online. People take it to relieve bursitis or whatever. Why not take it make mama look good?, Broke-Ass wondered aloud. Why, indeed, the fuck not?

Moreover, one sees such white slavery-priced serums with ingredients such as “green tea extract,” “soy peptides,” and “olive oil.” So, Broke-Ass boiled up a tea cup’s worth of green tea, steeped it, waited for it to cool down, emptied a small amount of said powder into the tea, and whisked it until it formed a gel-like consistency. Then she whisked in some soy lecithin (which she also buys in bulk for under five bucks to ease her addled brain function, such as it is) and a droplet or two of olive oil, and voila: hyalauronic facial serum.

Note any egregious wrinkling?

Now, loves, Broke-Ass’ brew should be made in small batches, and because it doesn’t contain anything that will give a body cancer, it’s best refrigerated. But it works like a freaking charm–no creasey wrinkles! smooth skin!–and costs bubkes to make. And if that ain’t talking pretty, babydolls, Broke-Ass will just hang up her fucking hand-knit hat right this second. Be beautiful: Broke-Ass loves you.

(And pretty, pretty please, pick up a copy!: In Spite of Everything: A Memoir by Susan Gregory Thomas)