This blog made me want to up sticks and go travelling for a second there, then I remembered that my best friend hasn’t stepped a foot out of Cumbria (slight exaggeration for comic effect) and she’s the funniest, most independent. most interesting person I’ve ever met. I also don’t own a watch and I don’t think there’s any need to romanticise that because it’s actually really annoying not knowing what the time is wherever you are, even if that’s in the arse-end-of-the-spiritual-forests-and-deserts-of-bloody-nowhere.
I find it interesting in a culture where not caring has been cool since the 50’s -when dying in car crashes became widely popular-that blogs are such an important part of having an identity in the modern age. “Oh you don’t have a blog? Get out of my creative office right now, there are people willing to write things down on the internet who could be standing where you are” – said employers working in creative places.
This might just be a British thing – or a personal thing – (I always think about my half German relatives who found it so easy to express themselves), but for instance if your work colleagues stumbled upon you doing performance poetry on the sly one night you might find it a bit odd talking seriously about AIFMDs or NEDs or BVGDS (this is made up acronym) with them the next day, I dunno. I got enough flack for trying to start a book club recently.
So maybe this is just an acceptable form of soul bearing for people who spend 70% of their waking hours taking commands from a computer screen. After all nothing you tap out on here really counts does it? Being racist or sexist on the internet isn’t real is it? Or a facebook status about how depressed you are? People don’t take that stuff seriously do they? OR DOES THEY?
So I find there’s a tautology therein when expressing myself on the internet but also getting the feeling that I have a select appreciative audience in mind, which kind of kills any natural expression. Plus it always seems that the most sincere people I meet in real life come across like clueless baboons on the internet, like people’s mums.
Agnes would probably quite like it if I wrote about feminism because obviously I’m all over that. I’m a BA degree educated female who enjoys the odd alternative musician in with her Rihanna, and wait for it, has a nose ring (!) so I will have a ramble on that that first:
- Sometimes women are fantastic and hilarious.
- Sometimes women are very annoying and everything they say and do makes you want to bop them on the head with a shovel.
- Sometimes women are Jennifer Lawrence.
None of the above should inform your decision about any woman you meet. If you are a woman and you’re not attractive get over it and go and be good at something else and prove
men everyone wrong in thinking that’s all you’re good for because it isn’t.
This doesn’t mean I don’t like to talk about feminism or declare myself a feminist, because I still get angry about outrageous bellends like this. But I still like to watch rubbish TV and that’s why I can relate to this.
I also promised Agnes in my last post that I’d talk about smoking. Similarly to crashing cars, smoking has been cool since the 50’s but I think that changed recently when Vice started dissing it, with due cause of course. I smoke because when I went to Thailand with 3 other girls the only way I could have any time alone was when I went outside to smoke and it cost a pound a pack. I will quit when I no longer have to go outside to avoid people I don’t like, so ironically you can blame the smoking ban – and people being inside. Edit: since the time of writing Reb Z Morger has stumbled across this page which is awkward. Obviously I do like the 3 girls I went to Thailand with, I could write for days on how that particular Rebz is the best friend a gal could have but I’ll save that slushy stuff for Instagram. Spose I should put a warning in that you can’t take anything I say seriously, I am a clown, but inside I am crying clown tears……………………….
The last time someone told me to make a blog she was at least 60 and called Agnes, she told me I’d never make it in this world as a journalist or otherwise without one and I was like fuck you Agnes, fuck the patriarchy, fuck crisps and coca cola I’m not playing your game man I’m just gonna sit here and watch Murder She Wrote and put minimal effort into my studies.
One year later it’s become apparent that Agnes was right. All Murder She Wrote taught me was how to do massively over exaggerated facial expressions at the scene of a crime.
Enjoy this blog if you have managed to find it, it should end up being a good cross section of my brain, like when you cut open a tree and see all the beautiful lines – each detailing another year in our earth’s majestic history, except all you’re likely to find is pizza and fag ash – think I’ll do my first post on smoking, LISTEN UP YOU GUYS CATCH YOU ON THE FLIPPY.