Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
I’m so fucking serious
I’m soooooooooo fucking serious.
I AM SO FUCKING SERIOUS.
Really? Why? I’m so over myself. What’s with the fucking seriousness thing?
Why the fuck can I not get all Teflon, all greased up and just let shit go, let it slip off? Why am I crazy Velcro woman who just attracts stuff that gets caught between the tiny Velcro spikes? Why is it like I get covered in little bits of tissue that accidently get left in a pocket and chucked in the wash and then there’s all those little fluffy bits of tissue sticking to everything, all over the black clothes? Because it never happens on a white wash does it – just the idea of it happening on a white wash is hilarious. What rule in the universe says that it always has to be a black wash that the shitty bits of tissue end up all through and all over? Oh my fuck – do you see what I mean???? I’m so fucking serious…it’s a tissue. In the wash. Let. It. Go…
I’m sooooo fucking serious. And the irony is, I don’t actually like serious. Not all the time, not over everything. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind serious, there’s some serious shit going on in the world – in your world, in my world, in the world around the corner or up the other end of the globe.
So if I don’t want to live a life with the ‘I’m so fucking serious’ setting, what is the alternative? What’s it like on the other side of I’m so fucking serious? What’s it like with a Pollyanna-esque alter ego where it’s all sunshine and rainbows and little fluffy kittens? And about as far away from ‘I’m so fucking serious’ as it’s possible to get. Actually, I don’t think I could live like that – a little bit of vomit came up at the thought of that much blinding sunlight and sugar rush from all that sweetness and light and sugar and spice and all things nice and binging on the naivety that there’s not some serious stuff going on.
I want a switch, which can control the I’m sooooo fucking serious. You know what I want ? A dimmer switch….that’s what I want. I’m so fucking serious. It’s like scary pub toilet fluro lighting. You know what it’s like, where all of a sudden you leave the gorgeous ambient lighting in the pub that comes from the tea light candles on the tables or the fairy lights around the door ways or the 1980s lamps that are all over every surface, to wham – lighting that just smacks you in the face and shows everything. Every random grey hair you thought you’d pulled out when you went on a grey hair pulling binge the other night in the bathroom at home; every smudgy bit of eyeliner that’s making it’s way into weird places around the crevices of your eyes, every hour of sleep you haven’t had lately and the bags under your eyes are now passively aggressively reminding you of that fact by the sheer nature and presence of their bagginess.
Where the fuck is that dimmer switch. Something, anything that has some sort of spectrum from feigned mild interest to moderate concern to blood boiling rage. Something with a bit of variety, to make things a bit more interesting rather than a constant, continual setting of I’m so fucking serious. It’s like the fluro lighting – just too, too, too, too much. And quite frankly, not all necessary, not all the time.
It’s exhausting.
It sucks away the capacity to recognise and accept silly little moments of joy.
It’s boring. It’s over.
I was so fucking serious, but I’ve moved on now. So much so, I occasionally like to mix things up a bit and chuck a tissue in the wash…just for old time’s sake.