Move over Jones family—there is a new clan in town requesting my attention: the Kardashians. For reasons more mysterious than the Marfa Lights, I find myself watching the same repeat episodes over and over (and over) again.

Maybe it’s the odd (and oddly incestuous) intersibling wrestling matches; maybe it’s my hopeful anticipation Bruce Jenner’s plastic surgeon will soon make a cameo; or maybe it’s because I secretly wish I looked like ol’ Kim. I couldn’t be farther from her doppleganger, with my Twilight-worthy pale skin and short hair; plus, nobody’s called my derriere cute since age two. (I wonder if a milk company would allow me to post a pic of my baby bum on a carton in case anyone has seen it? Just sayin’.)

But let’s face it—I’m most envious of Kim K’s lashes. That volume and length are enough to make any drag queen drool. Having always prided myself on finding a mascara to achieve the most bodacious lashes on the block, I recently decided to take things to the next level on my quest for Kim-dom and embark on the lash extension journey.

The initial application process required two hours of my time. I was asked to lay down and close my eyes (something I always wish my boss would ask of me right after lunchtime). The technician proceeded to meticulously adhere individual fake lashes to each one of my natural strands. Either she possessed magical powers similar to David Copperfield or was just incredibly skilled because I never felt a thing. The only reassurance I had that she was still working was the strong smell of her menthol cough drops released during each exhalation. As soon as I got the thumbs up to peel myself from the horizontal position, I anxiously scurried to the closest mirror to ogle my goods.

They. Looked. Phenomenal. (If I do say so myself.)

For the next three weeks, I confidently cruised around thinking this small tweak instantly jazzed up my appearance from head to toe. These bad boys helped me look a tad less “I am about to pass out” during morning jogs, a tad less “I am about to die of heat exhaustion” in Bikram yoga class and a bit more glam during normal, everyday existence.

If it was socially acceptable to post a Facebook status update declaring I was “in a relationship” with my lash extensions, I would have.

Enter week four: I noticed my right eye starting to feel fairly itchy and uncomfortable, but chalked it up to the high price of beauty. That is, until I looked in the mirror. My eye looked as if my three year-old niece had scribbled over the white part with her red marker.

As the hours passed, my eye became increasingly more and more swollen to the point where I deemed it necessary to go to a doctor. When I learned one of the lashes had become infected and I would need to get them removed immediately, my heart instantly sank into my stomach. This must be what Romeo felt like when prohibited from seeing Juliet. Or what J.Lo might feel like without bronzer. Or what Kathy Lee and Hoda would feel like without booze. How could this infection stand in the way of my beloved lashes?

The removal process proved to be painless, although it left me with a crop of short, stubby, sparse lashes (apologies for that triple “s” alliteration if you happen to have a lisp and be reading this out loud). I’ve since moved on from my lash extension relationship and now trying to regrow my natural set back to where they were, pre-extensions, with the help of Neulash.

Sigh. I guess I’ll never be a Kardashian. I suppose I should cancel my butt implant consultation before any more disaster ensues in the name of beauty.