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

blessed

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.

 

This Would Be More Glamorous If I Lived In New York City.

jones

I have a female 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 the notion 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 EVERYTHING 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 and also, what the fuck?

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. Now everyone is a “writer”. I see them, polluting my headspace with their toffee nut proliteriat 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 so I’m going to go enter my customer receipt survey on the Waitrose website for the chance to win £500 in vouchers that can never ever happen because my postcode is too bourgeois.

For Some Reason, Nicole Scherzinger Comes To Mind. You’ll See…

overload

Wouldn’t life be simpler if we all just had less stuff?

I mean yes, the mass acquisition of hairdryers and just-opened face creams that will even out those fine lines is important; you never know when you might grow an extra head that needs blow-drying and well, void of the creams, our bathroom shelves would take on a sudden abandoned Albanian warehouse feel. Is an empty bathroom cabinet just a new Cold War?

No, I mean stuff. The Suitcases Of Life. The more it weighs, the more you pay.

The mis-matched friends, one always inside out. You found her like that, so like that she will stay. The pamphlet that came with The Manual To Life. You keep it in the top drawer between the Really Important Stuff and the microwave warranty. You’ll never read it. You either know it all already; always did, always will and Don’t Need Instructions.

Or you’ve accepted.

Elements of life will always be pseudo-Swedish. Self-assemble. Break along the way because the bracket that was supposed to be a screw is in fact a really small tumour and helplines are closed on weekends. So you’ll try and put the thing together yourself. Call a friend who’s “good with things”. The manual? Well, it’s there as backup but let’s face it, the only growth it will ever really produce is a fine layer of dust.

It’s like clearing out your bookmarks folders. When was the last time you did that? Never. You don’t. You just create new ones. Because there are job specs and apartments you never visited and amazon urls for good eyeliner- of which, let’s make this clear now, there are none. There are only people good with eyeliner.

There’s useful stuff, though. The extension cord friends. Now they’re good. Totally useless on their own, but hook them up to shit that’s already there and my, doesn’t the room come alive?

The bottom drawer olive branches for the moments you’re as much at a loose end physically as you are metaphorically.

You envy those who don’t need extension cords. You know the kind I mean. Roll out of bed every morning at 7.05am looking like an Oxford shirt press just ran over a Malibu beach barbie in the most choreographed collision ever. They have no loose ties. No loose ends. No split ends. Just split peas in their quinoa, lentil and leaf rocket lunch salad.

Never could figure out how they needed fewer sockets. Then I realised, they need fewer plugs. Three, maybe. Phone, laptop and the worst. Spare. Christ, they even have spare time.

I am highly suspect of people without the need for spare extension cords. That’s why you people wear cable-knit sweaters, isn’t it?

I know you and I hate you. Your printer never runs out of colour ink even though you and everyone else on this fucking planet only prints in black and white. You find your flat immediately. The viewing was on your way home from work and anyway, by the time you’d signed, your girlfriend was just about done with finishing touches of her eyeliner to meet you for dinner. She eats Italian and doesn’t make a mess. She’s a good eyeliner person. I hate her too.

You never had to quit anything; jobs, cigarettes. You don’t even have to Force Quit. You are Control, have Alternatives and you never need to Delete because you never make mistakes.

You have one pitfall, though. It’s not a big one, but it’s explained, for instance, by the fact that I’ve long unfollowed you on Facebook.

You’re boring. I can’t even decide if I you rank higher or lower than the distressed cut-offs. You’re literally so dull, I can’t decide how dull.

If you’re a recruiter who’s somehow landed on this page and made it this far, feel free to add “not dull” to her list of qualities. If you’re unsure as to its being a “marketable” quality, ask yourself this. Is the product you sell more or less interesting than The Comprehensive History Of Drains? If yes, good. because consumers generally like versatility and also congratulations on having avoided an industry where you’re grateful the default wallpaper on your smartphone is primarily a giant clock. If no, you’ve properly lucked out. Because I make drains sound fucking epic.

Egg

th_eggy

The egg may walk or crawl or swim or simply sit, Amoebic shell. It is too soon to tell, What yonder lies beneath the swell. A brownish, Reddish, zygote beige. Too young to show the signs Of age, my eggy man is incognito. Like little man of apple seed, no colour yet or type or creed, Just edges of potential, minus the credentials. What form or frame or shape his yoke will take does not compute, For now he bakes. Cocooned in territories uncharted, His little life has not yet started. Embryonic Oompa Loompa, Floating in your membrane sea. I cannot see or feel or hear your Little cries or shouts of glee. Or sorrow. Perhaps Tomorrow I will know, what lies beneath your mystic glow. If you walk, will you walk tall and saunter down your sunny street, And nod goodday to other eggs who cross your path for you to greet. And if you crawl, will you be quick or slow or, Somewhere in between. Perhaps more hunched than svelte, I hope On others you need not lean. And if you Swim in waters clear, will they turn murky green, or steer Away from others’ tainted touch. Your strength is yours to hold, In hand or palm or chaos, calm. And if your calling simply is to sit amoebic in your shell, Hold high your head when others pass and laugh At your expense and swell your little yellow chest. You’re no more feeble than the rest. While they may climb The highest mountains, save the earth and cure the ill, You are my little fountain, small, exquisite. Yes you will.

© Rebecca Cukier 2009

© Harvard University Press 2009