How not to impress your boss:
Boss: Yep so we’ll be working on this project together; I’ll need about a week of your time. I think it’s going to be quite an interesting case, I did some scoping around on the guy yesterday and found out he’s linked to Manzano so..
Me: Really? Right, yeah, wow… gosh.
Boss: Mm. You know who Manzano is?
Me: ……….. No. No I don’t.
Boss: Okay, because you just really pretended like you did.
Me: ………Right yeah no, I did. I did do that.
BASTARDLY BOLLOCKY BAAAAAALLS!
How being social media minded has turned us into neurotic weirdos
I am relatively normal. I can hold a conversation with strangers, I have friends, I understand social boundaries.
But with the advent of a socially connected world even the most normal of persons transforms into an ugly werewolf at the sight of a wi-fi symbol. I MUST CHECK FACEBOOK, TWITTER, GMAIL, WHATSAPP!!!
Why are we so consumed with our online reputations that we forgot how to behave in real life? And, the sphere where it really takes a turn for the worse is…the realm of romance.
In the rose-tinted olden days we would have spoken a few sentences to our boy-school-crushes under the eaves of church on a Sunday then spent a tormenting seven days until the following Sunday waiting to speak another few sentences. After this dizzying encounter had occurred at least three times our parents would have arranged a marriage and we’d be walking down the aisle.
Today, you give your number to someone who grinded up behind you while Au Seve played on a depressing dance floor reeking of stale sweat, MDMA and forgotten dreams. On the night bus home there will undoubtedly be some flirtatious dalliance and the promise of a post-work negroni.
And then…….the wait.
The excruciating wait. Not because you actually like them or care but because you can see when they were last online, read your hilarious Facebook message, last checked whatsapp. Forget waterboarding, social media is the modern day communicative torture. Our technological Guantanamo.
Our generation dictates that we have to paint a self-portrait of hilarious hedonism and frivolous fun. We measure ourselves in updates. You’re worth your weight in photos. We’re always trying to outdo the person in the feed below us. But whilst we’re choosing our filters we’re forgetting to actually like people.
Does it matter the boy from Dogstar didn’t reply….NO because he can (potentially, probably doesn’t even care) see that you totally smashed it at Birthday’s this weekend thanks to your Nashville tinted Instagram. Then he’ll see how young and fun I am and totes hit me up next time he’s in Brixton.
Oh shit, he’s just been tagged at Dance Tunnel. You mustn’t reply to his next 5 messages. Where does it end?
I’m fed up with the whatsapp warfare and I’m tired of being locked in a constant battle of social media oneupmanship. I’m out. Write to me when Instagram is ohhhvaaaaahhh
Eccles Cake Bish
London Bridge. Tuesday night, about midnight. I’m drunk (whatever).
I’ve also just eaten a generous three course meal but for some reason I’m still really hungry, as in, really hungry. Hmmm before I go home I must get sustenance for the ten minute tube journey or… I might faint?
However, I have a serious problem: All shops in London Bridge station are… CLOSED.
Wait, apart from that light, over there, in the distance. A kiosk!
Hello kiosk! Ah. A second problem. Money. I don’t think I have any. I root around in my pockets: receipts, old train ticket, lip balm… Oh why must there be so many obstacles?!
Wait, what’s that? A shiny one pound coin? Huzzah! Now, to peruse:
Oh yummm, no, damn that’s 59p out of budget. Oooo, no, one pound FIFTY? Wait. I see a treat for £1! I have £1! It’s like, meant to be. What is it? It’s, it’s… an Eccles cake?
An Eccles cake.
Okayyy. Slightly left field. Meh what the hell, “kind sir, I’ll take th—”
"Excuse me love you couldn’t spare a pound, could you?"
Obviously now can’t buy the Eccles cake. Obviously really want the Eccles cake though. I know, I’ll pretend I don’t want the Eccles cake. I’ll walk away, but really, I’ll go once around the block. Then I’ll come back and then I’ll buy my Eccles cake.
Yes. This is what I did. Am I proud? No. Please believe me.
"Excuse me love —"
Oh! Does he hang out here?!!
Once around the block again? Yes. I paced the station twice. I KNOW.
Yet I still didn’t manage to rid myself of the awkward dilemma. There he stood, waiting, knowing.
What was it to be? Ethics or Eccles (arguably two of the most important words beginning with E).
Ten minutes later, I’m staring at my sorry reflection on the tube. Drunk; alone; minus a moral compass; plus an Eccles cake.
Would I make the same decision again? Admittedly, still unsure.
Key cutter definitely fancied me.
I made a typo in a report at work today.
Instead of 2008, I typed 20008.
Fuck, I thought.
The year 20 thousand and eight, from now until then is an unfathomable length of time.
I’ll be long dead, I thought.
Like, really, like, dead dead.
That typo made me very sad.
The sadness made me think more.
What will my life amount to?
Now I’m depressed.
Eighteen days in. Four simple resolutions. Let’s asses how well I’m doing.
Resolution Number One: Dry Dranuary.
What’s that? Banning liquid happiness for the worst month of the year? Yeah. YEAH. That does sound like something I want to do.
You do get such clarity from not drinking, you know? And I have got to know me more. My main conclusions about myself would be that: A) I love alcohol; and B) I am a pathological liar.
The line I tell people is that I lasted ten days without drinking and broke it with a glass of prosecco at my friend’s birthday (because I think that is noble). I’ve told it so much, even I believe this story. But, … SIGH
the truth is on the 4th January I drank a bottle and a half of red wine. By. My. Self. And the next day I had three gin and tonics.
Resolution Number Two: Eat Less and Exercise More.
Really, I hate this resolution. Not only for its anorexic undertones but also because it’s so unoriginal. When will I just give up? No. Okay? No. I still haven’t made it to the gym I pay monthly for. And yes, I ate a normal-sized meal followed by another normal-sized meal followed by a big bag of malteaser’s last night.
Alright? I hate myself, what more do you want?
Resolution Number Three: Spend less time on social media because comparing myself to others makes me feel inadequate.
I don’t want to talk about it.
Resolution Number Four: Blog More.
Does this count? I think this counts. Here’s to many great entries to come.
One Blog Entry = Getting Shit Together for 2014.
Happy New Year.
Ctrl + P
The sky’s the limit they told us. Broaden your horizons they said. Go to university, study hard, get a degree and chase your dreams. Their words rang through our heads like the tolling of a thousand Sunday church bells. So we did. We broadened our horizons and chased our dreams. We spent hours poring over books dustier than the Pyramids, straining our eyes to make sense of the potent words of philosophers long gone. Our toils and troubles represented in every last bead of sweat and every last heavy eyelid as we watched the minutes slowly tick away. Our rewards? Our first jobs. The elusive golden ticket to a lifetime of success and income and prospects.
And so, with our careers set before us like the yellow brick road underneath our sparkling red shoes, the realisation that our academic slavery basically amounts to a sophisticated game of printer politics. Who’s turn is it to call IT, who’s turn to get more paper, who caused the paper jam, do you really need to print an entire book, are we really having this argument?
So worth the 2:1
"Oh yes, It’s all coming back to me now" she said sitting on the top deck of the 133 to London Bridge on a crisp, foggy winter’s day.
A smile flashed across her face swiftly followed by a nervous laugh, a taste of expectation and a shake of her head.
A sinking feeling.
"I did recreate the Wrecking Ball video on the dance floor at last night’s work Christmas party for the entire office to see. Brilliant."
T O F T
I never thought this day would come, but it is time to put it out there…
Topshop, is actually, seriously, unpleasant.
Sorry. I know we’re not supposed to say it. But c’maan, I mean what the eff is going on in that shop?
What’s with the music? Why is it set out like a maze? Am I the only one who finds the whole Topshop experience unbearably stressful?
I got lost in there today.
And every time I turned round I was greeted by the most left field contributions to fashion I’d ever seen.
The worst thing was, everyone was acting like it was normal, like the really questionable shit in there was exaaaaactly what they wanted.
I felt like I was on crazy pills!!!!!
I had to get out. I had to run. I emerged angry, confused and hungry (got lost for a really long time), but most of all, I emerged OLD.
I am officially Too Old For Topshop.
What’s sad is that, I’m okay with it.
"Julia, you coming to after work drinks?"
- "oh no sorry, I have plans… With a friend."
I ate my friend. 😔