I decided to compile a small list of differences/hypocrisies/annoyances that apply to the daily ecstasy that is my life. I am sure some or all of the items in this list have been covered by someone else in some other digital or analogue medium, however there is no harm in reiterating the most heinous controversies of our time. Things like:
1) A cripplingly incorrect assignment of binary states to clothing cleanliness.
These guys call it “fuzzy logic”. That’s because if there’s something fuzzy growing on your clothes, it’s time to wash them.
Elaboration – I believe there is something in between black and white in this instance. Say there was a Tinder extension that segregated people – nay, quarantined people – for having been nothing but frequent and successful users of the application into groups. Imagine scrolling down the list of seductive profile pictures, excitedly scanning for your next lucky partner, taking into account this new feature. Scratch that, imagine you were ON the list and your dream girl/guy was scanning through it – I’d name examples but I don’t know what the kids these days are into… are pasty vampires still a thing?
I want you more than I want melanin.
So, say you’d been a bit cheeky with the bearded lady next door after a few too many shots of window cleaner, and you’d picked up some crabs due to her insistence to orally pleasure you at length. If ‘clean’ was STD-free, and ‘dirty’ was going to lump you with the folks with a bit of the syphilis, wouldn’t you want to be part of another group? The ‘little-bit-tainted’ group? Like the self-serve candy at your local sweet shop?
I just coated all your favourites with saliva, mucus and traces of fecal matter.
My point, as succinctly as I can put, being:
Jeans/Jumpers/: One wear* good, three wears getting smelly, five wears maybe wash it now.
Not ‘one wear need wash’.
Yeah, I’m just washing these ones, because you touched them when you ironed them.
* ‘wear’ applies to normal daily use – this does not include activities like trekking through peat bogs, food fights and bathing in your arch nemesis’ blood while fully clothed.
2) A complete inconsistency when sharing/portioning/rationing food
Elaboration – I am a student of simple virtues. Virtues like getting the fuck to the back of the queue and inflicting severe permanent disability on those who park in disabled spaces when they aren’t entitled to. And of course, applying the same weightings to food distribution.
If there was a pie that tasted like someone fermented it in the armpit of an obese undertaker whose armpit was the source of his entire business model, I would have to eat 70-95% of it, depending on how nicely the gravy masked the musky flavours.
When business is dry, I bake special cookies. I’m legally immune because I tell everyone I put blood and sweat into making them.
Why do I have to eat more? Because I am bigger and can eat more. I can’t argue with that statement, but I might try to negotiate the figure down, as I suspect in most cases such as these my portion ratio has been rounded up disproportionately to the ratio of our body weights.
I’ll take it like a storm drain in monsoon season, as I am wont to do, being a male in a relationship with the fear of invoking the wrath of the seven hells. However, if I’m going to ingest a majority of the heady contents of this pie, I’d like to apply the same rule to the double chocolate fudge cake heaven waiting for me in the fridge, lovingly covered with a layer of cling wrap to keep the latent fridge aromas (is that pork yoghurt I smell?) from penetrating its cakey goodness. So, 70-95% of that beauty is mine.
Background: my portion. Foreground: my portion. Ok ok, your portion.
Wait, what? 50%? So, we are sharing it equally now are we? I proceed to slice through the fudgeness whilst choking back tears, daring not to argue lest I enter a debate on gender equality.
3) Christmas Shopping
Elaboration – shopping for things you probably wouldn’t want, the recipient probably doesn’t need, that exceed a calculated price threshold. This threshold is formed from a combination of your bank balance, the size of that nugget of generosity buried in your cynicism, how high your tolerance is for shops’ Christmas soundtracks, and how much you don’t want to offend the gift recipient/recipient’s parents.
Ed can’t complain because he knows it’s better than the shit he got you.
Thus I wander the aisles, looking at things that should not exist in any normal universe that hopefully fit into my conservative gift price threshold of 4 dollars. Ceramic garden elephants that tell you to piss off when you urinate on them for those Friday night visits you so often have. Soap that smells like mince pies to seduce all those people who have not had enough mince pies by the time their gifts are opened. But something within me tells me that yes, I do need to buy one at the special reduced price. Something whispers “misdirection” to me, and for a moment I could swear this was not a good deal.
I walk out of the shop holding the elephant and soap triumphantly as I play hypothetical scenarios over in my head. My sister receiving the elephant and the whole family cackling with glee at the genius of combining generosity with humour. And for a moment we all forget that we have a pile of shit to carry home, a belly full of mince pie shit to come out when we get home, and the knowledge that some dickhead who decided to sell ceramic piss elephants is drinking champagne on a boat called “Esmerelda”.
Life is a journey. We can’t all have an Esmerelda. But thanks to Chinese manufacturing efficiency, we can all have inappropriate garden ornaments in time for the New Year!
Disclaimer – I am in no way inferring that the majority of gifts I have received in my lifetime are useless novelty items that serve no purpose except a brief desperate moment of bonding over the Yuletide. I love you all at least as much as the half fudge cake I begrudgingly inhaled, and almost as much as the full cake I was cheated from. <3 xxx