Can I get a miracle?

My journey with Jones Road Miracle Balm brought up some shit

Sometime last spring, my Instagram algorithm presented me with a mission. I could have denied it but instead I accepted. Of course I did. I’m calling it a mission because calling what follows an obsession would be laying it on thick, and as you’ll see, laying something on too thick turns out to be one of the central problems here, a very literal one, but still, I want to communicate that I felt no choice but to investigate the matter of what was now before me: creamy ribbons of shimmery goo being dispensed into satisfyingly big containers on a factory line. What was it? A blush? A lifetime supply of lip stuff? I watched on. The containers were white plastic and palm sized; they were deep. Built right into whatever it was, seemed to be the promise of a LOT, the promise of excess, of abundance. And then came the disembodied hands opening fresh containers (can I call them jars?) and pressing, pushing—with some initial erotic resistance on the part of the balm I might add—before breaking the seal and plunging a finger into the still surface. Breaking into the product this wild way, I soon learned, was not merely an act for the ads to offer a visual of the consistency, but a necessary step, a rule really: before even dreaming of becoming miraculous, you have to break the seal to release the pigment.