Ground Control To Major Dumb

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It’s hard to open with a reference from a show called Love because I was so proud to be toting my Kuomintang reference hat. The slump back down to girl who watches patchily scripted yet idiosyncratically quaint Rom-Com TV carries some shame. Now I’m a sentient lump, probably cartoon-esque, but with big eyelashes like Henry The Hoover’s girlfriend. Definitely wide-eyed because I need to find out if the characters fall in love. Definitely gullible because shows called Love where nobody falls in love are totally how TV networks invest their money.

I’ll sleep in a white-painted bed with red pelmets and some kind of patterned throw which will be symbolic of my drama queen flux. Teddy bears on its borders will overlook lipsticks and I will have many types. Matte. Glossy. Somewhere between the two. Probably a shade called Vixen for when I want to show my wild side.

Considering I own one lipstick and the name faded so long ago, it has no name, this should give some indication of how much I use it. Beanie babies deck my headboard but in a cool way. I like the way the flamingo and chicken’s legs “hang”. Also, I was the generation who bought these pieces of crap as an “investment”.

I’ve noticed something in TV shows. Actually, I’ve noticed something in life. It’s just better condensed in TV and also television affords me the vicarious engagement of all my fleeting fancies without the real world which is effectively dealing with morons, incompetent idiots and dicks.

Since TV is more condensed and this very much isn’t, let’s pull from examples. The greats and the trash. Shows where the nerd ends up with the cute girl. Which apparently we haven’t grown tired of yet. If you find yourself near perfume counters in department stores and the sales assistant gently suggests anti-wrinkle serums, Friends. If you’re still watching Big Bang, I’m not judging you but… dude.

Either way.  They end up dating. Note how the girl will always roll her eyes in dismay at her boyfriend’s interests. They’re geeky. Nerdy. Too intellectual for her pretty little head. However. She must at some point “make an effort”.  At least show “some interest”.  We’re dating, after all. I’m not asking you to take your unused lipsticks and write witty reductions of ribonucleic acid’s representation of your desire to “get in my genes”. Just, you know. Come to a movie with me once in a while. About dinosaurs. Or the origins of robots. You owe me that much.

And she will. Because she owes him.

She gets a counter-argument, though. Whatever. I’ll come but I’m doing this for you and anyway, this is completely unfair. You never show any interest in my stuff. Seriously. You don’t.

But sweetie, your stuff is synthetically produced liquids in a tube whose greatest achievement is annual revenue for L’Oreal. Your literature is Vogue magazine. It’s ok, though. I still love you.

Right there. He gets away with it. Every time. And the audience always sympathises with the guy. So I guess now I’m done waving sexually conservative flags on my quest to make the world’s riding of the egalitarian dick less lopsided,  I’m weaving a new one. Which isn’t going too well because I think I just accidentally started waving the flag for dumb.

And now it’s too late to un-dig it.

So, basically, crap.

I’ll try my best. Dear men. All that shit we’re interested in that doubles up as a prop for your inferiority complex? All the push-up bras. Bow details. Flower arrangements. Matte versus gloss. Contour versus highlight. High versus kitten. The 20,000 hours we’ll spend deciding whether the dress really does make our butt look big or whether that actually died years ago and junk is in?

Yeah. We use that to make us look cute. I’m sorry, do you want to banging the ugly girl?

Over and out.

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The Wheels On The Bus Go Round And Round

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GCSE history asked me, “Do revolutions come full circle?”.

It took longer for my dying hardware‘s endless revolving tabs to complete typing that than it did to fill out four A4 pages of essay. Castro had fidelity built into his namesake. By all means, polish the fuck out of your latest UI. I’ve restarted to upgrade and then some and while it’s really nice you now tell me it will once again be cloudy with a chance of rain, please don’t call your product ‘revolutionary’.

I’m not in the business of recreating history, but I got tabs here competing with the Kuomintang March. If you need your smartphone to work that one out- however long Google Maps estimates for a kilometre. Multiplied by 9,000.

Twitter is dying. Mao killed the birds. If only I weren’t too chicken to do a powerwash.

Also, that should totally come with a scent. Like orange blossom. Or, you know, new laptop smell.

Little Girls In Pretty Boxes

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Camden Council wants to reward me for recycling, a law which is already punishable with a penalty fine. For recycling all my cardboard and paper, they’re going to give me vouchers. For local cafes. That sell coffee. In paper cups with cardboard sleeves.

Particularly like that their little scheme involves sending “bin spies” which is cool because I’ve never been to Russia.

Royally gutted finding out the whole recycling process actually consumes more energy than is efficient or good for the planet. The one thing that made me feel really good. And tangibly, not distant, yeah, someone, somewhere down the line now finds their twice-daily 20k hike for water 0.4% less taxing but I’ll only remember I even agreed to it when I check my bank statement.

Actually good.

I don’t donate money to Africa. I haven’t inspected the quality personally, but I get the feeling Sierra Leone’s warlords have enough platinum plating on their M16s to be getting on with. I like to think my vaping adds moisture to flowering plants and also, it helps educate children on how trains used to work. I can’t measure my carbon footprint because carbon isn’t visible and I often just wear socks.

So I’d recycle, which made me feel good (N.B. Camden Council, still do).  And I don’t do things by half.

Tins are for amateurs. The real pros can spend a solid five minutes evaluating which parts of the soup container are really truly recyclable and which are purely there to fuck with your head because yes, it’s plastic but not that kind of plastic. Thought you were gonna hoodwink me, there? THINK AGAIN, MY FRIEND!

I know your lids like the back of my expert goddamn hands. I see your semi-permeable membranes of witchery and I will not be fooled. And though there are so very many other things I could be doing with my five minutes, I’m happy to be your green bin bitch because not only did I get soup, I got dopamine for being such a good girl.

I think they also offer vouchers for independent stores. Who probably sell soup.

This will never end.

Oh. Right.

I couldn’t find a picture of a recycling bin that wasn’t either weeping with McDonald’s overflow or so achingly patronising, it made Lucky’s cumulative 40k water trek seem comparatively dignified, so here’s a picture of mummy and baby elephant. They have a forthright march because they’re off to the sustainably sourced dump.

 

#wrecked

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What a pity. #blessed has to birth its ugly head just as humanity completely loses the concept of what is proportionate to consider as blessed. From what I gather, once upon a time, lives were generally so-so. Minor ups and downs like job acquisition vs. divorce and then, you know, truly major ones like finally getting to redeem your nectar points vs. stepping on a leaf only to find it wasn’t crunchy.

Now women grab the last Chanel Rouge before next season’s limited edition. Get to meet the girl whose second cousin’s next door neighbour’s fish shared spawn with a part of the carbon cycle that may have made its way into a plate of lentils eaten by someone on the same latitude as Kylie Jenner.

The sun rose.

Again.

Badly.

Here’s a picture of a leaf barely able to photosynthesise in its mediocrity. I am so very #blessed to be a part of this.

This is just the kind of thing that makes me want to check into Facebook.

feeling#blessed.

At the National Convention For Atheism.

 

Well, The A41 Has Two Lanes Closed And There’s No Tube. Guess We Could Take The Replacement Bus Service?

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Why is there no remotely approaching cool equivalent of American sub-culture in this country? What, we don’t eat enough Yakult?

Not that I don’t harbour a genuine adoration for the Britpop era that shaped whatever it was I was doing in my teens, but while our ears were all taken care of, I’m not gonna count unshaven dented lager can and acid-wash as an excuse for not washing at all as culture injection. You had it good, America. Black denim and chrome to the bone, devils that made it all the way to Georgia, fuck it. You didn’t stay in Compton, you made it out.

Ok, so your restaurant culture is a joke. If the origin of the word “entree” really is so subtle, your conclusion could only be that it’s definitely the second course, then you’re dumb fucks and so are your “appetizers”. (Perhaps I’m being harsh. This is after all the country that when it comes to horse riding, has to specify which part of the horse it’s riding). But you have mac and cheese at your KFC and even though no-one in their right mind goes to a fried chicken shop for pasta, it sounds nice.

Kid Rock heads out West. So he slightly by-passes the rodeo because if you’re Kid Rock, “West” is the Playboy Mansion, but we head west, we’re in Bristol. There’s a castle there and probably a river, but I bet the KFC’s shit.

You have honkytonks that serve moonshine. We have old man pub that smells of carpet and serves black crap in a pint. And we like it?

You have proper biker culture. All out. Prison gang, tattoo-branding, fuck the helmets, you want loose cannon? Bitch, guns are legal, here. Yeah, the open road, hair in the wind, sun looks good on chrome, doesn’t it? Yes. For the two whole days per annum we get of that. But it’s all cool, man. We can group out and fuck shit up all the way from Midsomer Norton to Chewton Mendip. Stop for a tea break and a slice of Victoria Sponge and then, fuck it, it’ll be dark by then. Best pack umbrellas and get the bus back.

And this is why I need a pick-up truck.

I don’t run for charity or challenge myself with ice, but if you’re feeling generous, a Dodge Ram or Ford F450 will do just fine. Just leave it in front of the door.

I’d come to you, but I still have a bit of a tan from the summer and well, that clown “running your country” might not let me in.

Breaking Bad

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1989. Three years old. My father had one of those 80s computers with the big slots for floppy disks that weren’t even floppy because the world was so focused on some wall, it’d lost the ability to describe shit. For those of you who don’t remember, the 80s was an embarrassing mess of oversized everything where everyone was fabulous and frizz was something you actually wanted. We were past black and white, not yet at the sepia renaissance, Bill Clinton was warming up for getting laid, a lot, and there was no internet as we now know it, just “R” and “A” because we didn’t really have enough room for RAM.

I’d say 1989 was the year the prodigy began manifesting. Coins in the floppy disk slot. Bread in the CD drive. Again, for those of you whose birth date suggests you can’t possibly be a day over five and yet somehow just turned twenty, fuck you. And you can find your own stupid explanation. It’s called Google.

Not your conventional gift, breaking shit, but then again, no-one breaks shit quite like me. If you’re not quite following me, I’m the kind of girl who breaks the anti-breaking device. And I started early. See the picture below? 1990. Aged four. School trip. Those cool swirly sunglasses everyone is wearing? They were purchased ten minutes before the photo was taken. Three guesses which kid I am and why I’m the only one not rocking shades.

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I should clarify. This ‘gift’ that is breaking stuff is about as heavy duty as the cases I have to purchase to protect everything I own. Actually, scratch that (literally). It goes as far as vetoing purchasing most things people own because I’ve learned buying shit you’ll break within a day does not constitute proper ownership.

This isn’t some kind of metaphor for commitment issues. I’m fully committed.

To breaking.

Examples of things I do not own because I cannot:

A watch. I wanted one badly, so a close friend ran a beta on me with the most child-friendly piece of canvas-strapped plastic crap Swatch could come up with. Lasted thirteen days.

Proper bracelets. I’ve sort of hacked this one to hoodwink people into thinking I’m sophisticated and stylish because pearls themselves? Sophisticated as fuck. Then everything kind of deflates because you’ve really got to grasp a lot of straws to find the sophisticated in elasticated pearls. So as it stands, no upgrade until I am responsible enough to own a set of four in a row that aren’t now two because someone broke the adjoining string.

Sometimes I wonder what Microsoft would make of me, just stuck in a giant room “testing” shit. For the record, this occurred in totally accidental circumstances in the incident now known as “this is why we don’t leave her alone in a lab at MIT”. Or maybe they anticipated my arrival on earth so got all their biggest guys together, sat them down and that is why we don’t have Microhard.

Unless twitching your nose counts as moving, this is me, near-motionless.

The air around me moves, phone falls on floor. Bend down to pick up phone. Drop vape. Which is useful for making decisions in seconds that some people can easily agonise over for weeks. Like purchasing a Lenovo Thinkpad Edge purely on the basis that it underwent military-grade shock testing. If that shit can survive Baghdad, it can survive me.

It did not.

So in the spirit of being a girl and having wishlists, fuck Rick Owens jackets and all the beautiful things Lagerfeld has come up with for yet another season- see what I did, there? Passive aggressive plugging, too. Yup, I’m a proper girl. I’m going full practical, here. In memoriam of all those that died and will die, we’re looking at:

Microwaves (on my fourth), hair clips, glasses (both kinds), laptops/printers/scanners, ice-maker bags, fridges, nail clippers, power steering, routers, the plastic glue to prevent me breaking routers, coffee machines, blenders, jacket zips, all zips, disposable cameras, real cameras,  chip and pin machines, cheese, replacement headphones, cigarettes, anything fragile and wrapped because I’ll get excited and shake it, the internet (I got there first, Kim).

This also times in well with all the self-love blog posts out there, what with us living in a time where everyone is beautiful and flaws are actually assets

I have no flaws.

I did, but I broke them all.

Think I’m exaggerating for clicks? Click this.

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