You literally don’t have to be friends with people you don’t like

Hi, let me help you get through life


Social interaction is our greatest source of hypocrisy. We moan about the people we party with, we swoon over the people that bore us and we smile at those who make us cringe. The cracks in social peace are cemented with this hypocrisy, and I dream of a world where Miley Cyrus swings in on her wrecking ball and smashes those cracks wide-fucking-open.

I was watching a video which showed someone spill a load of jelly beans onto a table as a symbol of life. Half of the beans are swept away to show the time we spend asleep, some more for our careers, the time we spend on the toilet and so on. When they got to the last remaining few beans, I realised just how little time we have to ourselves. And in God’s name why – I thought – do we spend it on people we don’t like? Let’s call this my ego-stential crisis of the summer.

Feelings are bad. Social interaction is dead.

Feelings are bad. Social interaction is dead.

Instead of watching my life ebb away one precious jelly bean at a time, I aspire to a state of being matched only by Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music – gliding across the Alps with open arms, basking in the glory of all the fucks she doesn’t give.

We wouldn’t order bad food off a menu, pick a dull film at the cinema or wear a sloppy outfit. So why do we do compromise with people? Ah. Yes. We live with them, study with them, work with them. A slight hitch.

But the hypocrisy is infuriating when girls defend misogynist “lads” because “they’re actually really nice when they’re not objectifying you”. Uh huh. I’d tell you how illogical that is but I wouldn’t want to mansplain. And there’s nothing that confirms a person’s dullness more than a mutual friend having to insist “oh they’re actually really funny” for the twentieth time. Sigh. *flicks jelly bean at you*

Enjoying this glorified photo album of me?

Enjoying this glorified photo album of me?

We’ve gone from brazenly uninviting each other from our birthday parties in the playground to cowering behind Twitter fights or a picket line. We’ve gone from happily thinking “urgh as if I’m sending that bitch a chicken on FarmVille” to “oh sureeee she can join us for coffee” and wincing “long time no see” to the strays from school. Turn to the proverbial sarcasm of Regina George, and you get the gist: “I love your skirt where did you get it?” Is this what the world is destined for? A never ending abyss of empty tones of intrigue? Fake upward-inflexions on the end of every sentence so that everything sounds like a question when we talk to people?

Alcohol is the ultimate saboteur. A bottle of Sainsbury’s Basics vino down and two shots of regret later your defences are out the window. Kinda like how your body tells you the PE-teacher fit guy turns into a regular fit guy at around 3am. This happens with people too. The “I’d rather swap anecdotes with my toe than talk to her” girl becomes the “yeh let’s pose for hilarious snapchat filters together” girl.

Don’t get me wrong, a little bitching here or there is fun – a girl’s gotta eat. But it doesn’t make it any less exhausting when so-and-so swans over and nasally asks how I’m doin’, to which I grimace back and ask the same. We both hate it. It’s not subtle. Lest we forget the jelly beans people.

A picture speaks two words.

A picture speaks two words.

Now I’m not saying we should be outright rude to people we don’t like – I said I wouldn’t send them a chicken, not that I blocked them as my neighbour all together, jeez. Sour tones or blatant insults are about as helpful as Trump’s hairbrush.

It’s all about striking the Goldilocks balance between J’amie Private School girl and any passive wet Michael Cera character. Balance is the key to any successful bitch. Well, pseudo-bitch to keep things that extra bit faux-friendly. Maybe think less eye roll, more just blank and bored gaze. It paints the same picture. It’s tricky knocking on the social-Pandora’s box while at the same time trying to keep peace.

So was this a useful life hack? Almost certainly not. You’ll all go on being fake to people you don’t like as soon as you’ve finished reading. Hell I’m guilty of it too. I just dream of a world filled with gliding Julie Andrews memes and time to ourselves to feast on the remains of our oh-so-precious jelly beans.