The thing that didn't occur to me when I decided to set this series up was this very (now) obvious fact: I can't control when and what I dream about, nor if I remember them - thus why this series has been very tumbleweed-ish for the last however-long. It's not that I've stopped dreaming; I simply forget the dream upon waking up.
SO. Here's what I'm gonna do today: refer to an old dream. But I can assure you that, in spite of the fact that this dream happened about two years ago, it is still entirely relevant because, well, travel in London is getting awful.
The Milking-a-Chicken-With-a-Marshmallow Dream
You should know first of all that I hated school. The fact that I am trying to get home from school in this dream would surely give Freud reason enough to twirl his beard around his fingers and make "Mmm-hmm" noises. We'll ignore Freud today, though. (And all other days, as a matter of fact.)
I used to get the bus home, but for some reason today I decide to head to the train station. Only, when I get there, I find that they've introduced a new ticketing system. Lined up next to the platform is a row of chickens, sitting on perches. I go up to one of the chickens, and find a little plaque on the perch, reading, "If you have never milked a chicken before, press here to call for assistance." I look around me at all the other commuters, happily milking their chickens as if they've been milking chickens for years, and I feel foolish.
"Well I'm not going to admit that I don't know what I'm doing," I think to myself, and I take hold of the marshmallow sitting beside my chicken, and copy what all the other commuters are doing: I position the marshmallow beneath my chicken. Only, when I do it, nothing happens. My chicken does not lay a ticket. It just sits there and blinks up at me, probably thinking how useless I am.
In spite of the fact that I had not called for assistance, a member of staff then approaches me, takes the marshmallow from my hands and says, "What you need to do is hold the marshmallow directly under its nipple." (Do chickens even have nipples? I have no idea.)
"Uh-huh," I say, as if I really plan on doing this again sometime.
"And after a few seconds," he goes on, "the ticket will come out."
We wait a few seconds, and then this pale brown foam comes out of the chicken's nipple(?), and settles on the marshmallow. For one perverse second it reminds me of trifle, and then it quickly reminds me of chicken shit.
The man passes me the marshmallow, and there I am: with my ticket, ready to travel.
Chicken poop on a marshmallow.
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Saturday, 19 March 2011
Series: Pet Peeves #4
Pet Peeve #4: Twitter
I did one for Facebook, and now I think it's time I did one for Twitter. In the blogging world at least, it's seen to be more acceptable to have a Twitter account than a Facebook account. I think bloggers like to kid themselves that it's less narcissistic to post endless status updates on a social networking site where people choose* to follow you, rather than on a social networking site where someone is only 'friends' with you because you added them a gazillion times two years ago, and on the one-gazillionth time they took pity and finally accepted your request. In my opinion, they're much the same. It doesn't matter what the social networking site is: I still don't care that you ate a cheese sandwich for lunch.
Anyway. Here are 10 things that annoy me about Twitter:
1. The get-as-many-followers-as-you-can craze. I think that your number of followers is meant to be a mark of how popular you are. Possible. But it could also be a mark of how ridiculous you are. For example, there's this one guy on Twitter (and I refuse to link to him) who promotes anorexia. Everyone thinks he's a tool, but he still has thousands of people 'following' him. Then you get people who follow you just so that you'll follow them back. Why? You don't care what I have got to say (if you did then you wouldn't 'unfollow' me the second you realise I'm not going to reciprocate), and I couldn't give a toss what you're getting up to on a Thursday afternoon. Let's not pretend otherwise.
2. Offensive 'Trending Topics'. What was the one I saw yesterday? #uknowuuglywhen. With all this fake popularity and name-calling, sometimes, Twitter really does feel like school.
3. Racist 'Trending Topics'. They usually read something like #thingsblackgirlsdo, #thingsblackmendo and #thingswhitepeoplecantdo. I've come up with one of my own: #thingstwatsontwittersay. My answer? All of the above.
4. Unoriginal relationship advice. For some reason, people like to RT (re-tweet) crap relationship advice that we've all heard a million times before. "A real man knows how to treat his woman." Please. Agony Aunts have been saying this shite for decades. Join the back of the queue.
5. One-word tweets. Context is everything. When you say "Yesss!", how is anyone supposed to know what you're referring to (that is, provided we even care)? It could mean, "Yesss! I found £20 on the bus!" or "Yesss! A cure for cancer has been found!" or "Yesss! is the opposite of 'Nooo!'"
6. Celebrities who never tweet back. Obviously they can't tweet back everyone, but sometimes it just feels personal.
7. It doesn't even work. Half the time I go on Twitter, a page comes up saying it's "over capacity". Seriously, how many fecking people are there out there tweeting about their cheese sandwiches? STOP IT. I've got real shizz to be chatting about here (sorta), but your cheese sandwich cheese tweets won't let me!!
8. Come again? I don't even understand what these people are saying. omdzzzz i cnt bleive it lyk iz syin stff n i dnt evn no wot it menz looooooool! I know you've only got 140 characters, but if these people removed a few of the o and z characters from the words omdzzzz and looooooool, they might find they're able to be less brutal with the omission of necessary vowels.
9. TMI. It stands for Too Much Information. Tweeting on the shitter? Don't do it.
10. I got followed by a salad yesterday. There's a sentence I never thought I would say (or type). This thing happens, though, where you tweet something really random, and then half an hour later you have some obscure business targeting you. If you tweet My hands are cold, half an hour later a glove company will be following you. Tweet My cat died yesterday, R.I.P. Fluffy, and within an hour, someone will be trying to sell you fluffy teddy bears. Tweet I have a sore bum, and wadya know: you've been targeted as a potential customer of haemorrhoid cream. This is capitalism, and it sucks.
* I use the word 'choose' loosely. Most of the time, they're only following you because they want an extra number of their 'followers' list. They used you. You were nothing to them but another notch on their Twitter bedpost.
I did one for Facebook, and now I think it's time I did one for Twitter. In the blogging world at least, it's seen to be more acceptable to have a Twitter account than a Facebook account. I think bloggers like to kid themselves that it's less narcissistic to post endless status updates on a social networking site where people choose* to follow you, rather than on a social networking site where someone is only 'friends' with you because you added them a gazillion times two years ago, and on the one-gazillionth time they took pity and finally accepted your request. In my opinion, they're much the same. It doesn't matter what the social networking site is: I still don't care that you ate a cheese sandwich for lunch.
Anyway. Here are 10 things that annoy me about Twitter:
1. The get-as-many-followers-as-you-can craze. I think that your number of followers is meant to be a mark of how popular you are. Possible. But it could also be a mark of how ridiculous you are. For example, there's this one guy on Twitter (and I refuse to link to him) who promotes anorexia. Everyone thinks he's a tool, but he still has thousands of people 'following' him. Then you get people who follow you just so that you'll follow them back. Why? You don't care what I have got to say (if you did then you wouldn't 'unfollow' me the second you realise I'm not going to reciprocate), and I couldn't give a toss what you're getting up to on a Thursday afternoon. Let's not pretend otherwise.
2. Offensive 'Trending Topics'. What was the one I saw yesterday? #uknowuuglywhen. With all this fake popularity and name-calling, sometimes, Twitter really does feel like school.
3. Racist 'Trending Topics'. They usually read something like #thingsblackgirlsdo, #thingsblackmendo and #thingswhitepeoplecantdo. I've come up with one of my own: #thingstwatsontwittersay. My answer? All of the above.
4. Unoriginal relationship advice. For some reason, people like to RT (re-tweet) crap relationship advice that we've all heard a million times before. "A real man knows how to treat his woman." Please. Agony Aunts have been saying this shite for decades. Join the back of the queue.
5. One-word tweets. Context is everything. When you say "Yesss!", how is anyone supposed to know what you're referring to (that is, provided we even care)? It could mean, "Yesss! I found £20 on the bus!" or "Yesss! A cure for cancer has been found!" or "Yesss! is the opposite of 'Nooo!'"
6. Celebrities who never tweet back. Obviously they can't tweet back everyone, but sometimes it just feels personal.
7. It doesn't even work. Half the time I go on Twitter, a page comes up saying it's "over capacity". Seriously, how many fecking people are there out there tweeting about their cheese sandwiches? STOP IT. I've got real shizz to be chatting about here (sorta), but your cheese sandwich cheese tweets won't let me!!
8. Come again? I don't even understand what these people are saying. omdzzzz i cnt bleive it lyk iz syin stff n i dnt evn no wot it menz looooooool! I know you've only got 140 characters, but if these people removed a few of the o and z characters from the words omdzzzz and looooooool, they might find they're able to be less brutal with the omission of necessary vowels.
9. TMI. It stands for Too Much Information. Tweeting on the shitter? Don't do it.
10. I got followed by a salad yesterday. There's a sentence I never thought I would say (or type). This thing happens, though, where you tweet something really random, and then half an hour later you have some obscure business targeting you. If you tweet My hands are cold, half an hour later a glove company will be following you. Tweet My cat died yesterday, R.I.P. Fluffy, and within an hour, someone will be trying to sell you fluffy teddy bears. Tweet I have a sore bum, and wadya know: you've been targeted as a potential customer of haemorrhoid cream. This is capitalism, and it sucks.
* I use the word 'choose' loosely. Most of the time, they're only following you because they want an extra number of their 'followers' list. They used you. You were nothing to them but another notch on their Twitter bedpost.
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
Once upon a time, in a faraway land...
How does he sleep at night? I'm guessing Nick Clegg sings him lullabies and tells him far-fetched fairytales about this magical land called 'The Big Society' - a place where those born into privilege are held up as figureheads of the community, and all the little people are more than happy to work for less than minimum wage, all the while being portrayed as 'lazy' and 'workshy'.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
International Women's Day
8th March. International Women's Day.
It's a sad state of affairs when, according to Twitter's 'Trending Topics', the day before International Women's Day (a real, 100-year-old holiday celebrating the achievements of women) becomes known as (and to quote Twitter users) #bootyappreciationday. It wouldn't be so bad if #bootyappreciationday appreciated male and female arses in equal measure, but it doesn't. I am genuinely saddened by the fact that my mother's, my grandmothers' and my great-grandmothers' generations could get excited about sisterhood and about fighting for a cause, while my generation feels that there is no longer any need for feminism, and instead adopts this "So let's go put up pictures of our bums on the internet" attitude instead. Our female ancestors died so that we could vote; they protested for equal pay and women's health and freedom rights. This was not the future that they imagined.
I could talk about the diminishing presence of 'feminism' in the world until I'm blue in the face, but frankly today is all about celebrating the achievements of women - not noting their failings. So that will have to wait for another day.
International Women's Day is not just about the Emily Dickinsons, Emmeline Pankhursts, Joan of Arcs and Virginia Woolfs this world has seen. Of course it is about them in part, but more than anything it's about all women. It's about recognising the successes and achievements of those listed above, and saying to yourself, "Alright, this is a man's world. But it bloody well shouldn't be."
Look at what these women have achieved and then look to yourself; you do not need to cater to patriarchal ideals to make something of yourself. You can be strong without being hard-faced, intelligent without being "prim", beautiful without flaunting every inch of skin, and kind without being submissive. Stop looking at our society's patriarchal model of female success (the looks, the confidence, the business-minded brain with the independence which goes far enough without stepping on any man's toes...), because she is not real. Just be you, and don't make any apologies for what that is.
It's a sad state of affairs when, according to Twitter's 'Trending Topics', the day before International Women's Day (a real, 100-year-old holiday celebrating the achievements of women) becomes known as (and to quote Twitter users) #bootyappreciationday. It wouldn't be so bad if #bootyappreciationday appreciated male and female arses in equal measure, but it doesn't. I am genuinely saddened by the fact that my mother's, my grandmothers' and my great-grandmothers' generations could get excited about sisterhood and about fighting for a cause, while my generation feels that there is no longer any need for feminism, and instead adopts this "So let's go put up pictures of our bums on the internet" attitude instead. Our female ancestors died so that we could vote; they protested for equal pay and women's health and freedom rights. This was not the future that they imagined.
I could talk about the diminishing presence of 'feminism' in the world until I'm blue in the face, but frankly today is all about celebrating the achievements of women - not noting their failings. So that will have to wait for another day.
International Women's Day is not just about the Emily Dickinsons, Emmeline Pankhursts, Joan of Arcs and Virginia Woolfs this world has seen. Of course it is about them in part, but more than anything it's about all women. It's about recognising the successes and achievements of those listed above, and saying to yourself, "Alright, this is a man's world. But it bloody well shouldn't be."
Look at what these women have achieved and then look to yourself; you do not need to cater to patriarchal ideals to make something of yourself. You can be strong without being hard-faced, intelligent without being "prim", beautiful without flaunting every inch of skin, and kind without being submissive. Stop looking at our society's patriarchal model of female success (the looks, the confidence, the business-minded brain with the independence which goes far enough without stepping on any man's toes...), because she is not real. Just be you, and don't make any apologies for what that is.
Friday, 4 March 2011
So WTF
I thought it's about time I write something, after an unexplained week-and-a-half hiatus. I could come up with some fantastic excuse about my house getting burgled, my car being driven off a cliff, and me getting flung off a moving rollercoaster 50 feet in the air and breaking every bone in my body, and though you might suspect I'm telling porkies, you would never really know. But I'm too honest to do that. I have "excessive honesty" reserved for future job interviews, when they ask me what my weaknesses are.
"I am too honest," I plan on saying, like the little goody-two-shoes that I am. "I cannot lie and I will never cheat, which means sometimes I don't always get what I want. I would rather make a fool of myself than be dishonest." And it's true. I once got 0% in a Spanish test at school, when I could have easily cheated. But whatever: c'est la vie. (Oh poop, that's French. No wonder I failed Spanish.)
My house did not get burgled. My car was not driven off a cliff. (I don't even have a car; the last time I had a car was back in 2008, which strangely happened to be the thought I woke up with this morning, causing instant panic to set in... What if I've forgotten how to drive?) I have not been flung off any rollercoasters, and if I had, I would be suing right now, rather than updating my blog. Or perhaps eating my food through a straw. My excuse for not writing? I had no thoughts.
Alright, yeah, of course I had thoughts, but unless people wanna hear about my driving anxieties, I figured there was no point in sharing them. I only choose to share now out of obligation, thus why this is turning into a very rambly post with little to no direction.
Crap. I believe this is somewhat similar to farting at a posh dinner party. Long, awkward silences... Not knowing where to look... One person sitting in the corner styling a laugh into a cough.
*Tumbleweed floats past*
(What a tumbleweed would be doing at a posh dinner party, I have no idea. Do people have dinner parties in the desert?)
"I am too honest," I plan on saying, like the little goody-two-shoes that I am. "I cannot lie and I will never cheat, which means sometimes I don't always get what I want. I would rather make a fool of myself than be dishonest." And it's true. I once got 0% in a Spanish test at school, when I could have easily cheated. But whatever: c'est la vie. (Oh poop, that's French. No wonder I failed Spanish.)
My house did not get burgled. My car was not driven off a cliff. (I don't even have a car; the last time I had a car was back in 2008, which strangely happened to be the thought I woke up with this morning, causing instant panic to set in... What if I've forgotten how to drive?) I have not been flung off any rollercoasters, and if I had, I would be suing right now, rather than updating my blog. Or perhaps eating my food through a straw. My excuse for not writing? I had no thoughts.
Alright, yeah, of course I had thoughts, but unless people wanna hear about my driving anxieties, I figured there was no point in sharing them. I only choose to share now out of obligation, thus why this is turning into a very rambly post with little to no direction.
Crap. I believe this is somewhat similar to farting at a posh dinner party. Long, awkward silences... Not knowing where to look... One person sitting in the corner styling a laugh into a cough.
*Tumbleweed floats past*
(What a tumbleweed would be doing at a posh dinner party, I have no idea. Do people have dinner parties in the desert?)
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Series: Dreams #1
I love dreams. And not just because I'm a lazy bugger who enjoys nap-time (though there is also that), but I believe dreams hold real significance in our lives. They let us know what we're feeling, on a subconscious or very obvious level. They help us work through stuff. I daresay sometimes they give us a glimpse into our futures. Forgive me for sounding all hocus-pocusy, but I'm a Piscean, and we Pisceans have a psychic streak. Sometimes my dreams come true. Maybe one of the dreams in this series will (though I doubt it will be this one).
The Jesus Dream
I’m dreaming about Jesus.
I went to church every Sunday for six years and not once then did I dream about Jesus. But now, of all moments in my life, I’m dreaming about him.
He’s sleeping rough with his disciplines. I only know this because I’ve decided to take part in a sponsored sleep-rough-for-a-week. The deal is this: people pay me to sleep on the streets for a week, and all the money I raise goes to the genuine homeless. For some reason, I thought it would be a doddle, but the eco-friendly sleeping bag I brought along has started to decompose in the rain, and I’m worried about getting run over by a bus. All the daily commuters coming out from the train station are complaining that I’m in the way. I stand up in the spot where my decomposed sleeping bag once occupied, and I yell at them that I’m raising awareness and that they should consider themselves lucky that they have jobs and homes to go to, and beds which don’t disappear as soon as it rains – but they don’t listen.
I scan the rest of the street for a better place to sleep, and that’s when I come across Jesus’ sleeping bag. I’m not sure how I know it’s his, but it is, and there’s 12 more bags lined up around it. I can’t help but notice that Peter’s got a flash new phone sitting on top of his, and find it reassuring to know that if Jesus were around today, even he would have caved to societal pressure to have all the newest things... Even though, technically, it’s Peter’s phone. There is every possibility that Jesus’ phone is a cheap pay-as-you-go deal from Argos, which he only uses in emergencies. The screen is probably in black and white, with the only game being Snakes.
Jesus doesn’t have things he doesn’t need, I decide with some certainty. Either Peter requires such a great phone because it makes spreading the word of God a whole lot easier (who needs to speak in tongues when you have unlimited minutes, texts and internet access?), or Peter’s going to get a telling off later when Jesus returns and finds his mate texting the following to John: “Yo what you up to? Jesus is fed up waiting for the bus, too expensive anyway. He’s legged it across the Thames. On foot lol. Watch, he'll be on the front page of The Metro tomorrow morning lmao."
The Jesus Dream
I’m dreaming about Jesus.
I went to church every Sunday for six years and not once then did I dream about Jesus. But now, of all moments in my life, I’m dreaming about him.
He’s sleeping rough with his disciplines. I only know this because I’ve decided to take part in a sponsored sleep-rough-for-a-week. The deal is this: people pay me to sleep on the streets for a week, and all the money I raise goes to the genuine homeless. For some reason, I thought it would be a doddle, but the eco-friendly sleeping bag I brought along has started to decompose in the rain, and I’m worried about getting run over by a bus. All the daily commuters coming out from the train station are complaining that I’m in the way. I stand up in the spot where my decomposed sleeping bag once occupied, and I yell at them that I’m raising awareness and that they should consider themselves lucky that they have jobs and homes to go to, and beds which don’t disappear as soon as it rains – but they don’t listen.
I scan the rest of the street for a better place to sleep, and that’s when I come across Jesus’ sleeping bag. I’m not sure how I know it’s his, but it is, and there’s 12 more bags lined up around it. I can’t help but notice that Peter’s got a flash new phone sitting on top of his, and find it reassuring to know that if Jesus were around today, even he would have caved to societal pressure to have all the newest things... Even though, technically, it’s Peter’s phone. There is every possibility that Jesus’ phone is a cheap pay-as-you-go deal from Argos, which he only uses in emergencies. The screen is probably in black and white, with the only game being Snakes.
Jesus doesn’t have things he doesn’t need, I decide with some certainty. Either Peter requires such a great phone because it makes spreading the word of God a whole lot easier (who needs to speak in tongues when you have unlimited minutes, texts and internet access?), or Peter’s going to get a telling off later when Jesus returns and finds his mate texting the following to John: “Yo what you up to? Jesus is fed up waiting for the bus, too expensive anyway. He’s legged it across the Thames. On foot lol. Watch, he'll be on the front page of The Metro tomorrow morning lmao."
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Series: Pet Peeves #3
Valentine's Day:
10 Reasons to Not Celebrate Valentine's Day
I have never celebrated Valentine's Day. Rain or shine, single or attached, the day always passses me by. I'd like to say it passes me by unnoticed, but unfortunately, thanks to western society's fascination with all things boring, unimaginative, clichéd and consumerist-oriented, it does not. I always notice it. And I always feel the need to complain about it. So here it is, ladies and gents: 10 reasons not to celebrate Valentine's Day.
1. It's a waste of money. Spending your hard-earned cash on useless stuff is hard enough to justify at the best of times; now the worst of times (i.e. a Tory government) have befallen us, it is even more ridiculous to attempt to justify spending that hard-earned cash on a seven-foot bear proclaiming "I heart you" on his stomach. What is the purpose of that bear? To say "I love you"? Well, guess what: God gave us the gift of speech. Use it.
2. Where your wasted money ends up. Hallmark. Big businesses with fat cats wearing suits, smoking cigars and wiping their arses with your money. Their arses. Your money.
3. It adds to our existing clutter. What happens to all these seven-foot bears as the years drift on by? Do we throw them away? Sell them? Would that make us heartless? Or do we keep them stored away in some cupboard somewhere, along with all the other crap we have no use for that we've accumulated throughout our lives?
4. Obligation. Obligation is just about the worst thing in the world. Y'know, after famine, war, disease and all that other stuff.
5. You're all bloody sheep! You all dress the same, you all buy the same crappy seven-foot bear, you all listen to the same sickening music, you all go to the same poorly-lit restaraunts (there's a reason we don't use candles anymore; it's called ELECTRICITY) and you all write the same forced, contrived shite in your Valentine's Day cards. If you're gonna celebrate it, at least do it a little differently. Wear a Halloween costume; buy a seven-foot dinosaur proclaiming "I'm going to eat you" across its stomach (still appropriate, no?); listen to some gangster rap or heavy metal; eat in McDonalds*; write "You're pretty bloody annoying, but I'm ugly and can't do any better" in your cards. C'mon, people. Be original.
6. It puts undue pressure on single people. And let's get one thing straight: there's nothing wrong with being single. Unless, I dunno, you play tennis and you need a doubles partner. Of course, people forget the joys of singledom on Valentine's Day. It's all "I'm pathetic", "No one likes me" and "I'm gonna die alone", causing men and women to flock to the nearest bar in their thousands and look for the nearest thing with a pulse. Meanwhile, thousands of other men and women (but mostly men) flock to their nearest bar, fully aware that everyone else there is single, desperate and about the easiest they will ever be for the next 364 days. It's all gonna end in tears. Or, at the very least, STIs.
7. The awkward "Oh WOW you got me a house! ...Here, I made you a CD." Or, from the other person's POV, "I spent an entire month's wages on him/her, and he/she couldn't even be bothered to take a shower!"
8. Too many flowers. This is a personal one for me. I get hay fever, and when they die I feel guilty for not having ever showed them the love and care and appreciation that they deserved.
9. It's really hard to buy someone a birthday card. All the shops seem to clear out 80% of their birthday cards to clear room for rows and rows of Valentine's Day cards, not to mention how impossible it is to navigate your way around a shop full of last-minute card-buyers. I don't like crowds. Crowds make me want to swing my arms in random directions with little regard to those around me.
10. People judge you no matter what you do. People like me judge those who celebrate it, and people who celebrate it judge people like me who don't celebrate it. Also, people who celebrate it judge those who wish to celebrate it but don't because they don't have anyone to celebrate it with, as well judging those who celebrate it, but celebrate it in a cheap, boring way. Not to mention people who don't celebrate it but wish to, judging those who celebrate in a jealous, bitchy kinda way. Congratulations if you're still with me, by the way. I lost myself about ten minutes ago on this one.
Bonus reason: OK, I know I said 10 reasons, but this one, although a little too sincere and reasonable for my liking, has to be said. Isn't it kinda sad that something as priceless as love has been turned into an arbitrary money-making business? You should be showing that 'special person' that you love them every day; not once a year with some seven-foot bear (I have a thing for that bear, as you can probably tell) and a cheesy poem in some generic card that thousands of other people are also opening up. I have no problem with people choosing to celebrate the day in their own sincere way - but these Hallmark holidays really get my goat. And I hate it when people take away my goat.
*Don't go to McDonalds. Burger King is so much more classy.
10 Reasons to Not Celebrate Valentine's Day
I have never celebrated Valentine's Day. Rain or shine, single or attached, the day always passses me by. I'd like to say it passes me by unnoticed, but unfortunately, thanks to western society's fascination with all things boring, unimaginative, clichéd and consumerist-oriented, it does not. I always notice it. And I always feel the need to complain about it. So here it is, ladies and gents: 10 reasons not to celebrate Valentine's Day.
1. It's a waste of money. Spending your hard-earned cash on useless stuff is hard enough to justify at the best of times; now the worst of times (i.e. a Tory government) have befallen us, it is even more ridiculous to attempt to justify spending that hard-earned cash on a seven-foot bear proclaiming "I heart you" on his stomach. What is the purpose of that bear? To say "I love you"? Well, guess what: God gave us the gift of speech. Use it.
2. Where your wasted money ends up. Hallmark. Big businesses with fat cats wearing suits, smoking cigars and wiping their arses with your money. Their arses. Your money.
3. It adds to our existing clutter. What happens to all these seven-foot bears as the years drift on by? Do we throw them away? Sell them? Would that make us heartless? Or do we keep them stored away in some cupboard somewhere, along with all the other crap we have no use for that we've accumulated throughout our lives?
4. Obligation. Obligation is just about the worst thing in the world. Y'know, after famine, war, disease and all that other stuff.
5. You're all bloody sheep! You all dress the same, you all buy the same crappy seven-foot bear, you all listen to the same sickening music, you all go to the same poorly-lit restaraunts (there's a reason we don't use candles anymore; it's called ELECTRICITY) and you all write the same forced, contrived shite in your Valentine's Day cards. If you're gonna celebrate it, at least do it a little differently. Wear a Halloween costume; buy a seven-foot dinosaur proclaiming "I'm going to eat you" across its stomach (still appropriate, no?); listen to some gangster rap or heavy metal; eat in McDonalds*; write "You're pretty bloody annoying, but I'm ugly and can't do any better" in your cards. C'mon, people. Be original.
6. It puts undue pressure on single people. And let's get one thing straight: there's nothing wrong with being single. Unless, I dunno, you play tennis and you need a doubles partner. Of course, people forget the joys of singledom on Valentine's Day. It's all "I'm pathetic", "No one likes me" and "I'm gonna die alone", causing men and women to flock to the nearest bar in their thousands and look for the nearest thing with a pulse. Meanwhile, thousands of other men and women (but mostly men) flock to their nearest bar, fully aware that everyone else there is single, desperate and about the easiest they will ever be for the next 364 days. It's all gonna end in tears. Or, at the very least, STIs.
7. The awkward "Oh WOW you got me a house! ...Here, I made you a CD." Or, from the other person's POV, "I spent an entire month's wages on him/her, and he/she couldn't even be bothered to take a shower!"
8. Too many flowers. This is a personal one for me. I get hay fever, and when they die I feel guilty for not having ever showed them the love and care and appreciation that they deserved.
9. It's really hard to buy someone a birthday card. All the shops seem to clear out 80% of their birthday cards to clear room for rows and rows of Valentine's Day cards, not to mention how impossible it is to navigate your way around a shop full of last-minute card-buyers. I don't like crowds. Crowds make me want to swing my arms in random directions with little regard to those around me.
10. People judge you no matter what you do. People like me judge those who celebrate it, and people who celebrate it judge people like me who don't celebrate it. Also, people who celebrate it judge those who wish to celebrate it but don't because they don't have anyone to celebrate it with, as well judging those who celebrate it, but celebrate it in a cheap, boring way. Not to mention people who don't celebrate it but wish to, judging those who celebrate in a jealous, bitchy kinda way. Congratulations if you're still with me, by the way. I lost myself about ten minutes ago on this one.
Bonus reason: OK, I know I said 10 reasons, but this one, although a little too sincere and reasonable for my liking, has to be said. Isn't it kinda sad that something as priceless as love has been turned into an arbitrary money-making business? You should be showing that 'special person' that you love them every day; not once a year with some seven-foot bear (I have a thing for that bear, as you can probably tell) and a cheesy poem in some generic card that thousands of other people are also opening up. I have no problem with people choosing to celebrate the day in their own sincere way - but these Hallmark holidays really get my goat. And I hate it when people take away my goat.
*Don't go to McDonalds. Burger King is so much more classy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)