I have definitely got it (Facebook fatigue, that is). Or at least fatigue at a certain kind of update.
I have found myself increasingly bored of seeing updates about what people are doing with their weekends, evenings, lunch times, bed times… I just can’t remember why I ever used to care. Did I care? I think I did, Or at least, it didn’t used to make me annoyed at a large percentage of the human race in quite the same way.
Don’t get me wrong, I used to be just as guilty as the next person of updating my Facebook with what I was eating, where I was going, where I had been and yada yada yawn. Then I realised that not only was I hugely disinterested in the minutiae of other people’s lives so why the hell would they be interested in mine, I realised that, actually, I actively do not want people to know where I’m going, what I’m doing and who I’m seeing, unless I choose to tell them personally for some reason.
It’s not just the ‘who cares’ factor either, it’s the cringe factor of people flaunting how fun! and busy! their lives are on a regular basis.
So I’ve for the most part stopped updates about my personal life. Oh and blocked people from checking me in without approval, so that other people can’t decide to share the insignificant details of my social life for me.
(Obviously if I’m going somewhere amazing and exciting or have a moment of weakness and feel like I must let people know I’m having fun! and I have friends! and I eat food! I might succumb and do an update, so don’t hold me to any of this.)
For now though, I’m getting such Facebook fatigue that I’m getting to the point of hiding updates from almost everyone, which would make being on Facebook slightly pointless.
Why don’t I leave? It’s entangled me in its web of millions of my photos that don’t exist anywhere else and a general feeling that I somehow need it to exist in the real world. It is becoming another platform for me to be annoyed at people on and I am just too scared to leave it, goddamit.
The good thing about Twitter is that people tend not to spew as much mundane personal dross as on Facebook. They tend to share funny or interesting observations, articles, pictures or thoughts and not tell the world how they’re in a bar on a Friday (amazing news!) is or how they’re having an early night (stop the press!). Or, at least, not the people I follow. But then, I don’t tend to follow people I know in real life on Twitter.
So there are a few possible conclusions here: everyone I know in real life bores me/Twitter is better than Facebook/I am just becoming grumpier than ever.
Probably the last one. Right, I’m off to have a bath and eat some pickled onions.
I sent my first real letter of complaint today (well, email) and thought I would share it all with you. Usually I just bitch and moan on here so this is quite an achievement. Names have been changed for the purpose of this blog post (very clevery, I’m sure you’ll agree) but otherwise this is what I sent word for word.
To whom it may concern,
Hello. I have been using your Headingley store for many years now (although it has not always been a Bainsburys, the staff have remained mostly the same) on an almost daily basis (as it is two minutes from my work place) and in all the time I have been visiting I have had the same complete lack of any kind of customer service from one particular member of staff. This member of staff’s name tag was ‘Bangela’ yesterday (I haven’t bothered to check previously as it’s only just got to the point where I’ve really had enough and have decided to complain.) I assume this is therefore her name but I guess she could have been using someone else’s name tag.
Bangela will literally not speak to me when serving me. Not one word. I’ve tested on several occasions whether if I don’t say anything either, anything at all will be said. No, it won’t.
To paint a typical picture for you, I went in the store yesterday and the day previously and took my items to the cigarette kiosk where she served me. I placed said items on the counter. No ‘hello’, no smile, nothing. She then didn’t tell me the final amount, she just sort of looked at the till display. I gave her my money, she took it, gave me my change, and not a word was said throughout the whole transaction, no ‘thank you’, no ‘goodbye’, nothing. This was the case on both days and every time I’m served by her; a bit like a very quiet Groundhog Day, if you will.
Now I know she CAN speak, as she finished her conversation about her son with her colleague before she started serving me in silence.
I also know this is not a one-off. Every time she serves me, which must total thirty times or more over the years, it is in complete silence and with a faint look of disgust on her face.
I don’t know this lady personally and have never done anything to offend her that I am aware off.
Whether she treats all customers like this or if it’s a personal vendetta, based on who knows what, I also don’t know. But I am pretty sure I have seen her say at least ‘thanks’ to other customers.
I’ve worked in bars, shops and supermarkets. It’s really not that hard to at least say hello and thanks. I don’t want a cuddle and a kiss, I don’t even want a conversation. I just don’t want to feel as though I might be invisible or as though I am a terrible person for attempting to purchase a packet of Bnack a Backs.
This lady makes shopping trips a bemusingly depressing experience and I am tired of it.
I’ve done nothing to deserve such ignorant treatment and neither have most other shoppers, if indeed they are receiving it. I can speak to the store manager as well but I have avoided doing so to date as I’m sure it will make future shopping trips even more unpleasant.
Please can you let me know what you are able to do to help me with this?
Something that never ceases to irritate and bemuse me (two states of mind which, as regular readers will know, I am particularly familiar with) is fashion. It really is an utter bunch of arse when you look at it isn’t it?
Obviously, most of us follow clothing trends to some degree. I don’t go walking around in a hessian sack with a pineapple on top of my head for example. I wear clothes that are in keeping with the times and which I like for two main reasons: I think they suit me and they are reasonably comfortable.
Not because someone has decided something is must have and SO this season.
And this is where fashion gets ridiculous – you probably could very easily find some emaciated model trudging the catwalk in a hessian sack, and I’m damned sure I’ve seen fruit adorning the heads of catwalk models more than once.
What’s more, a true fashion victim would wear said hessian sacks, were a TopShop version for under 60 quid to become available.
And then every other bloody person would start wearing them. I’m not talking general trends here, like long scarves, cropped trousers or skinny jeans. I’m talking instantly recognisable items that suddenly render a sizeable portion of the population sheep-like clones. And which the cast of Hollyoaks will definitely be wearing.
Cases in point:
Faux fur coats
Those woolly hats with animal ears
Last winter I must have seen these items, mainly on students and ‘young professionals’, at least five times a day, if not more.
It’s just faintly embarrassing to be seen wearing the same ‘must-have’ item as every other person in the street, surely?
I haven’t got a funny ending to this blog post.
Well it’s been a while, but like Take That and genital warts, I’m back.
A lot has happened since I last blogged. I am now living with an actual real live (brilliant) man, which means I can no longer moan about being single and nearly 30. Don’t despair though, I can still moan about nearly being 30. And everything else.
So to ease you gently back into my funpacked world of moaning and whingeing, we’ll start with chuggers. AKA charity muggers.
Oh how I detest them.
For those not familiar, I’m referring to the creatures that lurk in the middle of high streets ready to pounce on you with their clipboards, false smiles and personalities that could variously be described as ‘wacky’, ‘zany’ and ‘crazy’. All words that make me want to gouge my own eyes out with a rusty spoon and then feed said eyes to the irritating little arsewipes.
Think I’m being harsh? Let me explain why you’re wrong. One: I’m right. And B: do not be fooled into believing for one second that these people give two tiny shits about cancer sufferers, wounded animals, abandoned clothes pegs or whatever charity it is they’re trying to ensnare you into via the medium of direct debit.
They might happen to care, but it would be completely coincidental.
And this is what makes their smug, self-satisfied, over familiar manner all the more galling. I know they work on commission, they know they work on commission and anyone with a functioning brain cell knows they work on commission. So they can sod off trying to guilt trip me into giving to whatever charity they happen to be working for. If you care that much pal, get another job and then the money that the charity save by not paying your commission can actually, you know, go to charity.
When they try and reel me in by making some grotesquely patronising comment such as ‘hey there trendy hair!’ or ‘hi girls!’ (when I’m with my 60 year old mother, for god’s sake) are they expecting us to giggle girlishly and immediately sign up to give ten pounds a month to the retired dogs’ bowls society for the rest of our lives? Because that’s not what happens. What happens is I swallow back my barf as I politely say no thanks and attempt to walk around them as they get into my personal space with their invasive bodies and their stupidly inane fake smiling faces. Next time I plan to place one hand on their chest and shout NOOO in a very deep and loud voice as I continue walking.
The whole Andy Grey, other football man I’d never previously heard of, debacle of a week or so ago, got me thinking about feminism, the struggle for true equality, and how we’re really not there yet.
And then I got distracted by pore strips. They’re really rubbish. Essentially, pore strips are white bits of paper that you stick on your nose. They make you look like you’ve had a nose job whilst you’re wearing them, and they ‘draw out impurities’. ALLEDGEDLY.
They do in fact seem to have drawn out my impurities, from their former comparatively well-hidden location, to the front of my face. Which wasn’t really the effect I was going for when I purchased this product.
Ahh, the things we do for beauty eh? As a single but highly eligible bachelorette (have I mentioned at any point previously in this blog that I’m still single and fast approaching 30? I doubt it), it’s important to maintain a well groomed appearance at all times, just in case an opportunity presents itself for you to ensnare charm a man when you’re least expecting it.
So, recently, I decided to try out several treatments and products that are a step up from my usual arduous beauty regime, which consists of washing my body and face, rarely washing my hair, moisturising, and putting some mascara on. Oh and concealer under my eyes, now that I have permanent dark circles there because I am OLD.
So I tried the pore strips, which made me look spottier. I also did a face mask, which was fun because it made me look like I was in the Black and White Minstrels (but white-ed up instead of blacked up) and smelt of strawberries.
On top of this I subjected myself to a range of other forms of grooming and preening which I won’t go into, because… well, it would be weird.
The question is. Was it all worth it? Do these things actually make a scrap of difference to how you look or do they just make you feel like they make a difference? Is the only difference they really make that they minimally boost your confidence, making you come across as a more ‘attractive’ person?
Probably the latter.
And hey, it’s pretty fun to pamper and preen like a proper girl every so often. But I do wonder about the amount of money some gals (and guys I’m sure) spend regularly on an array of beauty treatments that, no offence ladies, make a minute amount of difference to the way they look.
Nail art, hair extensions, spray tans, eyebrow shaping, teeth whitening – as a one-off I get it, but as a regular thing…
One, how can you be arsed? Two, wouldn’t you rather spend your cash on, you know, doing things? Three, it aint going to make that much difference to your looks. You’ll still be you (unless you have facial surgery) just a less well-off, more looks-conscious version of you.
Because once you start tweaking and changing, I reckon you just want to carry on and find it impossible not to notice more ‘flaws’ and things you could change and ‘improve’ upon.
If anyone’s not seen Channel 4’s Beauty and the Beast, I recommend it. It’s Channel 4’s usual bordering-on-the-exploitative-but-highly-watchable-reality-TV fare and puts together very vain (for which we can read ‘self-conscious’ and actually very sweet, in the case of the first Beauty at least) people with people who have severe facial deformities/scarring and so on.
In the first episode, the Beauty in question makes a breakthrough and dares to bare, leaving the house without her false eyelashes on, but still with full make up and hair extensions of course.
Thing is, her excessive concern for make up and beautifying was all down to trying to distract attention from her really rather ginormous boobs, which men, from smart business types to homeless alcoholics, felt it was more than acceptable to openly leer at and comment on. Her make up and hair was basically saying “talk to my face you ignorant, sexist TWATS”.
And the ironic thing is, a multitude of women out there would consider or have considered paying thousands of pounds and undergoing surgery under general anaesthetic just to have slightly bigger boobs.
Like I said, we’re not quite there yet and sometimes it is hard to be a woman. But I think it’s just hard to be a person, regardless of gender, in this looks-obsessed, materialistic society, that makes you think things are important when they really are of no significance whatsoever.
Right, I’m off to be a hermit and live in a bear cave somewhere.
Nine days into the New Year and it already feels like Christmas was an age ago. It also feels like I’ve not been paid for an excruciatingly long time, and yet there are still two and a bit weeks to go until the next pay day. Getting paid early for xmas is great n all, but not so great once you realise you’ve spent all your cash on booze, food and cheap hoes (for the garden, obv) before the 24th of December and there’s still a MONTH to go until the next pay day.
Still, I’d imagine it’s what Jesus would’ve wanted.
As well as Jesus, someone else extremely important celebrated their birthday in December. That’s right – me. They don’t call me the modern day Messiah for nothing! (They don’t call me it at all. They’re idiots.)
So now I’ve entered into my final year of my twenties. Whoop de freaking whoop.
This time next year I’ll be 30. And what do I have to show for my life so far? Not a lot. All around me people are settling down with partners, getting engaged, having babies, buying houses. All the stuff that you’ve got all the time in the world to do, until you look in the mirror and realise that you’re no longer a teenager and that ticking isn’t your watch, because you don’t own a watch, it’s your biological clock screaming “Hurry the SHIT up or you’re going to die alone with a withered womb, smelling of cat wee and desperation.”
My clock is a cruel mistress.
So then you start to wonder, have I been too rash in the past? Should I have given people more of a chance and relationships more of a go?
Just because someone’s attempts to be funny make you want to vomit violently at the sheer cringe-inducing un-funniness of it all, doesn’t mean you couldn’t learn to live with it, does it…? Just because someone’s so selfish, lazy, pretentious, boring, or a winning combo of all of the above, that you basically learn to detest everything about them and couldn’t possibly see yourself producing offspring with such a human being, doesn’t mean that you can’t make a bit of an effort so that you’re not left alone, surrounded by cat poo (to go with the aforementioned cat wee - can’t have one without the other), does it…? Just because it gets to the point where someone touching you makes you visibly cringe and leaves you wanting to scrub your skin with a wire brush and bleach, doesn’t mean you can’t just stick with it and perhaps opt for artificial insemination, does it…? And just because someone has a shrine in your honour and a tattoo of your face on their torso, well, it doesn’t mean that they’re anything other than a bit ‘keen’, does it…?
I don’t know. But I do wonder whether a great deal of people don’t settle for second best once they reach a certain age. Or has everyone suddenly and magically found the happy relationships that they struggled to find before? Do people lower their standards once they reach their 30s, or have they just got bored of playing around?
I’d like to pause time right now so I can still go off and do all the fun things I want and have all the good times I can, without the oppressive cloud of time looming over me every step of the way. That way, I’d have all the time in the world to meet the right person, without having to settle for someone who I’ll end up resenting and who I may decide to slowly poison over several months, watching their health slowly deteriorate, just as the last shards of light slowly deteriorate from my heart, leaving nothing but a small, shrivelled-up, black lump of coal.
HA-PPY NEW YEAR!!
P.S I was going to do that one-blog-post-a-day thing this year, but I didn’t.