Faceless!

I am running an experiment to see if Facebook is a drain on our creative energies and eats our time like some kind of bingeing singularity trying to fill the endless void gouged from having no family or friends - I didn't set out to prove exactly that, initially I thought it might help me to not procrastinate. I didn't think it would work either, given I am the queen of putting shit off till later, and in fact I have several gold medals that I won for England in this field waiting to be picked up at the post office, as soon as I find the time.

I was facebooking at every idle moment. waiting for tubes, trains, elevators, ordering food, loo, while excel opened, while I clicked in a cell, while I saved my word document, while I booted my laptop, in between breaths. The difference it made - no one was as surprised as me. Not only has it given me time back, something else has happened. I'm in a better mood. I'm not constantly seeing how well everyone is doing, specifically and exactly how much better everyone is doing. I had morphed into some coveting jealous mouth breather, wilfully forgetting to be happy for people when people were happy. Facebook had turned me into a cunt.

Not only that, but I am a billion times less anxious, I'm essentially what one might call a 'total utter fucking pussy', and really can't handle any meaness, aggressiveness, hostility of any kind and specifically anyone heckling my beliefs or gags, or even Facebook updates. Do you know how stressful that is? Especially if you're naturally inclined to be a bit shit and a bit cheesy?

It's been an an eye opener. Firstly, quite a few of the sweetest people that I love the most can be quite brutal online, in general. Secondly, so can I. Don't get be wrong, the lols totally outweigh the racs (rage at computer, thank you, just coined it, no really, thank you, it was nothing) but that's essentially another problem in itself, funny is like an appetite, it runs out once you satisfy it, leaving no room for any of the funny you have in the fridge at home. You end up wasting it, throwing it away, and hating yourself. Ok maybe not hating yourself. But yeah. Hating yourself.

I wouldn't say that Facebook is a waste of time, but it was like an addiction; like super Hans from Peep Show said when he was smoking crack at a wedding; "it's really moorish."

It's just good not to waste too much of your time on the things that are little.

shit, scuse me, have to go, I'm missing Gogglebox.

"Get out of my armpit!"

That was about me. THAT is what a fellow peak hour morning commuter tweeted about me, this morning. Because I was reading my magazine and whenever the train yawed, it moved us all in a single mass except for the sharp corners of my magazine, which moved just a fraction further to crinkle themselves against his rib cage. I know it must have been uncomfortable. I know it was scratchy and sharpy and pointy and that's not what you want in the morning.

However, northern line tube at 8 30 am via bank is going to be hell on earth - pointy sharpy papery jabs in your rib cage would suck, let's be fair about it. But it's the least of your worries. You could have someone's backpack in your boob. IN YOUR BOOB. The pregnant hemisphere of nylon and scratchy seems ramming its round payload into your boob with every carriage yaw, smushing your breast up against your rib cage, which in turn smushes your magazine against someone else's rib cage.

But the only difference is I don't hate the owner of the bag, I don't. I don't even hate the bag, or the carriage. In fact the heaving mass of humans flanking me on all sides and their quaint little satchels full of treasures and 'necessities' endears me no end to my fellow passengers - my fellow creatures - we're all the same; we live in this great big city all together, we all have jobs we slog at even though the pay is shit and there's always an idiot and there's always the office hand grenade and we could be treated at least a billion per cent better by our manager... That's why no matter what happens I always try not to get the rage, and I always try to make room.

What's that King's Cross south-bound Bank Branch? There's no room and you want to get on? And your boss is probably a fiendish time-nazi TWAT just like mine, and you're probably on your last performance review legs because you coast on bare minimum just like me, and who wouldn't write blogs instead of working? Of course there's room for you. Come on! I'll move just a little bit and that person will move just a little bit and like a big family we all try to make room for each other. Nobody wants to be late, we all want to fuck off early this friday and we are all totally going to have a life and make our manager furious because of it, and that's why none of us can be late, and that's why there's always room for you, you, you and you. Worse, you could be our manager, poor bastard. Room for him as well, what a total shit sandwhich of a team he's forced to manage, day after day, every departmental meeting ending with him faceplanting at the myriad of lacklustre fucksticks doing bare minimum and not doing a very good job of even that, definitely move over for him, in fact you - get up - he deserves a fucking SEAT.

So mr 'get out of my armpit' tweeter, I totally understand your frustration, I even empathise with you, my magazine's corners especially glossy and hurty, but I love you you little shit so make a bit more room for me so I can read my magazine in peace and I can let you tweet in peace and we can both focus our attentions on the fucking weekend and in how many ways we are going to get massively on it and spend all our cash and have a rad time with all of our friends, and each other - our fellow humans!

Stand Clear, Doors Closing!

The invention of being able to do whatever the hell you want

I was meandering in the Canary Wharf subterranean shopping district trying to slay my bad mood I got as a result of one meeting before I went into another. It was about ten past ten in the morning, I had been cornered in the last meeting by a klusterfuck of idiots who’d not understood that ‘Please ensure you have the first draft of the System Architecture Design ready by (today) so we can go through it as a project team’, ‘oh you mean today, oh you mean a System Architecture Design document, oh you mean come to work in an office, oh you mean like, speak a language and be human and interact in society, THAT thing, OH…’

As I found myself standing in front of friendly coffee merchants my eyes fell upon a slice of new York baked cheesecake sitting in a simple plastic box, looking all lovely and delicious.

Without a moment’s thought, I bought it.

Oh my GOD, I thought wildly, feverishly walking back to my office, cake in hand. I literally just bought cake for NO OTHER REASON than I simply WANTED some. It wasn’t morning tea, it wasn’t someone’s birthday, I hadn’t missed lunch or wasn’t going to the gym later, I hadn’t won anything and it was nowhere even close to a special occasion.

I just bought it because I fancied some.

As the walls of order and civilisation crumbled around my screaming head, the curtain of the world as I knew it lifted, and beyond it lay CHAOS – if I can eat cheesecake at 10 past ten in the morning then I can eat it ANY TIME. I can eat it ALL DAY LONG. In fact I can eat it for dinner. In bed, in the shower, on a train. I can eat one and I can follow that one with another.

And I was afraid.

Trembling, I put the cake away in the fridge, unmarked, and clearly visible to the thieving whores I work with. I walked away. Halfway back to my desk, I turned around, and went back for it. If I’m going to destroy my sense of calm and centred place in the world, I may as well enjoy the spoils.

It’s the apocalypse, bitches!! Tonight: ICECREAM and KFC. Maybe even together.