Cool it on the perfection, the inspiration, the aspirations, the hashtag glory. I’ve been trying to keep up for ages and now I’m a bit over it. I’ve come up with a list of suggestions I’d like to see you whack a filter on – let’s call it a ten-day challenge:
- Post argument #selfie with your significant other before making up, when you’re both wondering if you really need this shit
- Close-up of snotty tears face just after crying at Grey’s Anatomy/P.S. I Love You/video of any sort of animal being reunited with its animal friend or family
- Ad-hoc catalogue of pointless, passive-aggressive work emails sent about people’s dishes in the kitchen area
- Daily play count of catchy pop song in style of Bieber’s “Sorry”/Rihanna’s “Bitch Better Have My Money” interpreted into graph, relative to day of the week and blood sugar levels
- Cups of tea, in no particular order, in a 3 x 3 grid
- Short video of just-missed bus as it pulls away
- Pile of never-read books in order of literary street credibility: most impressive at the bottom of the stack
- Bitten-nails manicure on stubby fingered man hands, with a French twist
- Bar graph representations of how many times a person at a desk job hits their Enter key/smacks their forehead to the desk in a day
- Error messages as inspirational quotations
Who do you even think you are. Stop that.
I am completely fucking over this whole fucking systematised misogynistic bullshit pile, for it is a gigantic waste of my excellent brain energy.
Hypothetically, let’s say I see a job I want to apply for that I would be very damned good at.
People react to me sharing my intentions by pre-emptively coaching me through the not getting of the job before I’ve even written a motherfucking cover letter. Breaking it down, you say “yeah, I mean, you may as well give it a shot” – I hear “bless your cotton socks, you think you’re people who get important jobs”. You know what? I don’t need any more suggestion to prepare myself for failure. I’m a young female person in an old male bureaucratic institution. I know full well that I’m staring down the barrel of a lifetime of busy work and spreadsheets unless I pick myself up, trudge through the mud and the gentle suggestions that I aim lower. I know women are meant to be happy little administrators who good-naturedly run the world with little to no acknowledgement, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit quietly waiting for someone to throw me a party.
System, you asshole. You’ve made me internalise some hectic self-doubt, and I’m equal parts heartbroken and furious. I could run this whole entire world, given the right gang and the correct breakfast – yet here I am, paralysed into breaking down selection criteria and listing reasons why the things I’ve done so far are Not Enough.
I think what really grinds my gears is that I know there are people in the world who just assume they will get the Job or the Thing or the Whatever, and then they just… get it, just like they thought they would. I want the Job! I want the Thing! I want the Whatever!
I was sort of hoping this book “Eat Pray Love Made Me Do It” might be a bit like Pinterest Fails, but it isn’t.
It’s actually genuine and inspirational, and for some reason on this overly warm, tired out Wednesday afternoon I find that very disappointing. Here’s some examples of stories that would actually cause me to buy this book:
- I got wistful for ‘The One That Got Away’, then I read Eat Pray Love and I left my husband on a whim but when I found my high school boyfriend, he had gotten ugly and had not developed any further personality or intelligence and then my husband wouldn’t take me back.
- I went to an ashram and everyone had taken the vow of silence so I couldn’t find out where to sleep or eat and eventually I fell into a coma from sleep deprivation and starvation and then I realised just how poor everyone in India is so I couldn’t even really complain about it.
- I decided to write a book about my life and then I realised nothing much had ever happened to me and that made me so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed for 6 weeks and then my annual leave was up and I had to go back to work.
- I sold everything I owned and went to Italy and then I found out I could not eat gluten.
- I went to Bali and I did not meet that hot guy and I was not Julia Roberts and it was the worst.
Hey ya big dork,
What on earth were you thinking, staying in a shared dorm in a YHA on a Saturday night in Sydney? What are you, a recently-legal overseas visitor on her first trip to Australia? How exactly did you imagine it was going to pan out, trying to go to sleep at 10:30pm in a 6 person dorm room? My favourite part was your stubborn determination to not “rent a towel” so you could “have a shower”, because nothing says respectable attendee at a Sydney Opera House event like someone covered in two days worth of Sydney city humidity.
Let’s also talk about your decision to drive back to Armidale after a Sunday afternoon/early evening concert with the intention of going to work on Monday. For future reference, you are definitely too old for that shit. You are 30. Don’t be silly. Next time you should probably fly, let’s be honest.
In conclusion: you haven’t come all this way through all the poor student/crazy young person phases of the moon to still be avoiding the finer, slightly more expensive things in life, particularly when you can definitely afford them. Rent a hotel so you can go to bed at 10:30 like you like, and get a peaceful, holiday-quality full night’s sleep, like you like. Enjoy towels that are included in the bill. Avoid other humans at your discretion. You’ve earned this. Enjoy the serene and solitary while you can.
You superior motherf*ckers.
You think you’re so much better than me, all dry-haired and dry-shouldered, strutting around the place like it’s yours. Look at you, you motivational-poster-in-the-making. For you, life is a sequence of sensical events: wake up well-rested, eat a balanced breakfast, put on your crease-free clothing, go to work and save the planet, trigger high-five montages and dancing sequences, blah blah blah. I’m certain, based on social media evidence I have been diligently collecting when I should have been doing something else, that none of you people with umbrellas have ever felt the icy sting of huge, fat, juicy raindrops running straight from the heavens down the back of your neck. I highly doubt you’ve ever darted from tree to tree as a means of shelter, only to realise the fattest drops to fall on you gather in wait on the leaves of those very trees.
I bet you’ve never thought to yourself “I could really do with some 2007-era Rihanna popping up to walk me to work right about now”. WHERE WERE YOU RI? IT IS RAINING MORE THAN EVER. MY SHOES ARE SQUELCHING.
Ella, ella, ay, ay, ay.
And just FYI: Life is not always about dancing in the rain. Sometimes it is about waiting for the storm to pass. In your car. Saying to yourself: “I will just march into the office pretending I recently had a shower fully dressed and dare anyone to question me”.
I’m so very sorry for you that other people are being vegan and talking about it. Maybe us crazy animal-lovers are even sharing opinions about the industry of consuming animals and possibly speaking directly to you in an online public space about it? Maybe we’ve even pointed out the environmental impacts? Ouch, I’m just so sorry you’re being made to think about your choices.
I note that it’s barely worth pointing out to you how silly you look by banging on rather adamantly about how much you resent Other Opinions being expressed in any way – especially seeing as I’m running so fucking low on protein *weakly crunches down on carrot stick*.
Your level of defensiveness with regards to people speaking passionately about things they do differently to you is pretty fucking telling, just FYI. The implication that ‘some of your best friends are vegan’ and they’re alright because they’re the ‘right kind of vegan’ veers dangerously close to the justifications I hear about racism, sexism and homophobia. It bothers me that any ideas outside of the white, able-bodied, male, consumer-driven status quo are automatically militant until proven they can toe the line when needed. I’d point out more connections but I haven’t the word count available to me, or any cares to give. Plus, you know, just so weak from lack of iron.
I’m not interested in engaging anyone in a conversation about how many ways they’re wrong when they have quite blatantly stated they’re well within their rights to yell loudly and blindly into the internet stratosphere about their stupid, meat-eating feelings.