This post will be short.
Amazon are at my door with ink cartridges.
This post will be short.
Amazon are at my door with ink cartridges.
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.
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.
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.
1989. Three years old. My dad had one of those 80’s computers. You know, 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 80’s 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.
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.
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, 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. 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.
I googled myself recently.
Fifth hit. Depression.
Really, WordPress? Of all the crap your bots pick up, this is what you go for?
Ok, now I really am depressed.