Week 6: It’s time for Stexit
To Hell with America! Let’s make ME great again
Time is slipping away. Not in a rippling, fluttering, I-can’t-believe-I’m-having-this-much-fun sort of way but in more of a furious, frenetic, heaps of diamonds clattering down a large flight of steps kind of way.
However, I'm now determined to rise from the ashes of week five and channel the emotional collapse into a piping hot fury at all the time that’s been stolen (STOLEN!) from me. It's time to toss the consolatory chocolate aside, investigate the suspects, and dispense swift justice.
Suspect No. 1: Tech
Me and my phone appear to have found ourselves in a toxic relationship. I’m just getting tired of her constant negativity, the way she jolts me awake each morning only to let me know everything I’ve missed since the night before. Granted, I’ve let her nose-dive into cobblestones on a few occasions, but who’s counting? It’s not me, it’s her.
To suggest we could work through this is just naive. I know her through and through. I see how she lures me in with a harmless Instagram notification and before I know it, I’ve fallen down a youtube rabbit hole and I'm knee deep into why "Baby It's Cold Outside" is problematic.
Equally, my fingers are becoming collateral damage in all this. No longer accustomed to handwritten essays and intricate passages of Handel, they’ve become somewhat spoilt, shirking their duties and barely able to support the extra weight of a Paperchase panda pen. When met such an item, they are outraged and cry out: "How dare you insult us with such degrading labour! Don’t you know we’ve moved up in the world? We *swipe* now."
My solution? I would say a dishy little alarm clock as a start, but since it’s week six and bank balances are dwindling, I'll recommend a charming pair of chopsticks as an affordable alternative to ease you back into technological sobriety.
Suspect No. 2: Love
Ah, the real source of anguish. No matter how swimmingly life can be going, it seems unrequited love will always leave you feeling like a worm crushed beneath an oversized boot.
But is the contemplating, theorising and flustering, all really worth it for a designated coffee companion who might tuck a strand of hair being your ear at infrequent intervals? Most likely not.
Realising how much time I’ve tossed into the trough of romantic turmoil is an absolute outrage. In fact, it’s such an outrage that it makes me want to race through town thwacking men over the head with copies of the Female Eunuch and hurling toothbrushes at them (the only weapon that felt suitably offensive without causing serious harm). I’m aware it’s not *technically* their fault, but it would certainly help.
So I’ve decided to sever all ties to the romantic world – so long Crushbridge, farewell Hugh Grant – and abandon the task of turning myself into a human MIKA song and bending over backwards to convince potential soulmates I’m wonderful. (Metaphorically speaking, of course. In reality, I haven’t yet managed to accomplish such a feat as "the crab". Perhaps that’s the problem.)
Anyhow, this is not only an official declaration of my impending divorce from the worlds of technology and romance but also a rallying call to whoever is reading this to join me:
Romantics and screen addicts of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your chances to socialise and find love!
Hmmm. That really doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?