In so many ways.
In so many ways.
If the empty Waitrose cup’s 18 grams is just too much for the bagging area to handle, and according to Alejandro González Iñárritu, your soul weighs 21 grams, at what point is one considered to have “excess baggage”?
I have a friend who is incredibly astute.
“That’s the problem with being female in a big city,” she said recently. “You’re always either hunting for an apartment, a job, or a guy”.
Living in London is like living in the worst video game ever. You can’t pause, you don’t get a second chance, and you never die. Just you, and eight million other freaks, aimlessly wandering this damp shitfest of a conurbation, where the default setting is autonomic hyperactivity so high, there’s no way a discreet smile can be interpreted as anything other than life-menacing.
I didn’t realise they decorate the hamster wheel of compartmental destitution for Christmas. They do. In the really fucked up way that makes a rodent really excited, because the bars of his cage got a fresh lick of paint. Hey! You! Don’t be hoodwinked into toying with notions that your pathetic existence is meaningless and vapid. Look at all the things we have to offer! You can pay for your ride through tunnels of dust contactlessly. You get nectar points. Everything you drink is about to taste a hundred times better, because WE JUST STARTED POURING STUFF INTO CUPS THAT ARE RED!
The world also just got infinitely more exciting because Samsung have brought out a “notebook” that spontaneously combusts as its way of telling you it’s fully charged. I can’t sue for identity theft here, but dude.
I’m a writer.
We have two tools we can exclusively call our own. Notebooks and pens. We’ve been around for thousands of years. Ten minutes, you’ve been on the scene, and you’ve already violated the very elements that constitute us. Just behind “photographer”, everyone is (of course) now also a “writer”. I see them, polluting my headspace with their toffee nut proletariat, while I cling mercilessly on to my one remaining pleasure. Writing on 22×7 squared Clairefontaine notebooks with a brushed vellum paper weight of 90g/m².
Now I’m both angry and sad, because the fancy pink grapefruit I bought to cheer myself up was rubbish, and the £500 Waitrose are promising I can win in return for feedback is a sad lie. My postcode is too bourgeois.
I’ve decided to write a book on bravery in the chicken pen.
Mr Cluck Doesn’t Give A Fuck.
If you feel it infringes on animal rights, you’ll probably want additional ammo with which to load your hate gun.
Which I can take.
And you can suck.
I’ve already written cages and cages.
If recent posts are doing a poor job sequestering my love for all things infantile, fine. This is my pram, these are my toys, and I’ll throw them how I choose.
In a world where little boys sit in glass-wrapped offices and rest their Helmut Lang elbows on mahogany desks, I’m calling bullshit. Why?
Because I am a lady who rides the bus. And when some clown freezes the Jubilee Line because retrieving his smartphone from the tracks seemed a “better idea between trains”, Canary Wharf also rides the bus.
The bus is an interesting place. Seat margins replace profits, Tartine et Chocolat gives Tom Ford the middle finger, and there is no UberSelect. It’s called “I put my coat there first”. For all the billions these heavyweights net in their high-rises, I’ve yet to see one of these fuckers come up with a counter-argument for the twelve year-old who was “sitting there first”.
And that is because the bus is the rail replacement service to childhood.
Everyone pushes to get on.
Everyone wants to sit by the window/at the back/on the convex bit that’s cool because it’s above the wheel.
No-one argues with the driver.
Shoving? He’ll call you on it. Press the bell when the sign clearly says someone already did? He’ll call you on it. And just like at school, if you’re the victim of bullying, eyes on the road, didn’t see a damn thing.
Food gets more interesting here, too. Fast food joints on the street won’t even register on your radar. But when that nurse pulls out a congealed tray of cold noodles? Noodles are the greatest thing CREATED EVER.
The older get priority seating.
They should get priority boarding, but no-one gives a shit.
Nobody should be littering. Everyone still does.
Someone always misses their stop. There is one acceptable reaction to this. Man the fuck up, and shrug it off.
If you’re on your way to an interview and on a bus, you’re probably not going to make it. To the interview, and you know, in life, generally. Still, retain what Google told you. Look like you’ve got it together. Sound like you’ve got it together. Make eye contact.
Except on the bus.
If you happen to be on the phone (which I believe these gargantuan office transactions at some point require), make sure everyone can hear you. No, louder. We like having our own little world hijacked by why you will or won’t be turning up to dinner, broken down into microscopic detail, then blasted through a megaphone. Make sure to repeat yourself. They might not have heard you the first time.
Make sure to begin your call with “hi, it’s me”.
No. Better. Leave it in a voicemail.
My popularity-guaranteed life coach services are available seven days a week. Except when I’m on the phone.
Rocking my Generation X moniker one smartphone swipe at a time, and you motherfucking clowns tell me there’s already a Generation Z?
What are they gonna do, kit the cloud out in memory foam?
I’ll have you know we rode the new-gen dick just fine, back in my day.
I dislike how large corporations have ruined my ability to ever name my child Helvetica. That, and gentle nudges by friends who get I come titrated with just the right amount of quirk but on the whole remain sensationally dumb. It also appears naming your child after a font could prove problematic, regardless of the high yield it might generate.
And because names have connotations, but mostly because children use playgrounds as hosting venues for
showing character being mean, we (the small population that think ahead) have to adjust to this ever-evolving carousel that claims to have tackled everything from gender to body shaming and yet, when I ask my friend’s six year-old why everyone hates Augustus Gloop, it’s still mostly because he’s fat.
Now I have a solidly starved child on the agenda, I still don’t have a name for it. And the more enter my head, the more I veto.
It feels noteworthy to mention attempting to alphabetise this list is literally the most technologically advanced task I’ve performed in a while. But stretching it to sub-categories seemed too much effort, so congratulations, baby. You don’t know it yet, but your mother is both judgemental and lazy although that could well work in your favour as once she’s deemed you too pudgy, turns out she also can’t be fucked to feed you.
Also, knowing I’m too middle class to ever have enough children to fill this list makes me kind of sad.
Since a vanity license plate of A5HHLEY just drove past me, no. Ashley leaves a trail of drama and frappuccinos in her wake which now also rules out Martha because goddamnit, I will not raise a child whose destiny is clearing up milkshake splatter for £8.20 an hour. Also, Martha is always somewhere around fifty and I’m not ageist but.
Megan is a slut. As is Bree. Roxanne. Holly. Heather. Victoria. Shannon. Kristen. Sherri. Shelly. Amy and your baby face isn’t fooling anyone.
Jessica manipulates. That’s my thing.
Natasha has nice eyebrows but is a bully.
Christina is a non-sentient ectomorph ice queen who hides her parasitic persona by signing her name with hearts over every possible letter. Amanda is cute but dumb. Or both. Alison is a fucking riot but deep down I’d be proud of her because she can hold her liquor and I feel she’d make a good power lifter. Kylie will be a patented name within the next six months and every Connie I know is Chinese.
Sarah is boring. Sara is a bitch. All Joys are sad and all Hopes are failures. I’ll never have a grandchild with an Irene because she lacks sufficient body fat to produce her own offspring and Portia is a toss-up; the grandchild will be happy but not a guaranteed biological relative.
Very little about me is cute so cutesy would fail to be representative of family values. So no Claire. Lucy. Camilla (if I want pot pourri, I can buy it). Cecily (this isn’t 1812). Chloe. Ella. Hazel. Heidi. Lily. Madeleine. Adelaide. Anywhere on a map. Amelie. Annabelle. Avery. Bonnie. Daniella. Emily.
Grace is a fucking whore and Oona isn’t a name, it’s a goddamn emoji.
Every Stephanie I’ve ever met has some kind of personality disorder.
I’m not trashy enough for Skyler but not soignée enough for Agnès. Can’t vouch for what being a MILF is actually like, but being Stacy’s Mom is out and if you didn’t get the reference, fuck you and your new-gen shit. Anything that starts with a z is risky business. Impatience might be hereditary and I had a hard enough time at school waiting for them to get to r.
I remain equally unimpressed with google results on what millenials are calling their kids and further unimpressed that they even have kids at all. Only vaguely acceptable one I see is Milo, but mostly because The Phantom Tollbooth may well be the greatest book ever written and Milo is the perfect amount of inquisitive and normal.
Also, Milo is a boy. Which I hadn’t considered.
I could just have a boy.
Oh, please. Who am I kidding.