It is the end of January and I feel I need a reminder of my New Year’s Resolutions.
‘Cause I’m really, really, really failing at them.
Here we go:
People who mean well but are always saying idiotic snipey things.
People who do not mean well and are always saying idiotic snipey things.
People who mean well but are idiots.
People who focus on the wrong things, to everyone’s detriment.
These are the people who most fill me with rage.
This rage takes up a lot of time.
These are the people I am vowing not to concern myself with in 2013.*
What I will concern myself with in 2013: my own pleasure.
And that’s it.
Also: not interrupting people so much.
That’s really fucking annoying, I know.
Also: drinking more water.
Here’s my 2013 in a nutshell: I listen to everyone yapping around me all the time, a million machines screaming all day long (the printer, the printer in the shipping room, the dough sheeter, the dehydrator, the Cheez-Its grinding cashews at 1000 decibels, the tempering machine, the iPad, the phone, the computer, the oven—my life is loud these days, everything always needs to have more toner, more paper, turn it on, turn it off, fix it, call someone to fix it, change it, do this, do that) but I live in a ZEN CLOUD OF CALM because my magical New Year’s resolutions mean that their yappingness rolls off me like butter.
In short: I focus on MY OWN SHIT.
Done with shit! Done with stooping to someone else’s shit levels.
Their shit is not my shit!
Also: I am luminous with hydration, and when I go out with my friends I politely listen to their words while not calculating in my head when they will pause so I can burst in with my own yappiness. (<—Jew.)
I was inspired in this by Kathleen Hanna, who had this to say about Beyoncé. It’s not exactly related, but it does relate to where we put our time. That’s my chief concern in life. We don’t have much goddamn time. Where are we going to put it?
Beyoncé isn’t Beyoncé because she reads comments on the Internet. Beyoncé is in Ibiza, wearing a stomach necklace, walking hand in hand with her hot boyfriend. She’s going on the yacht and having a mimosa. She’s not reading shitty comments about herself on the Internet, and we shouldn’t either. I just think, Would Beyoncé be reading this? No, she would just delete it or somebody would delete it for her. What I really need to do is close the computer and then talk back to that voice and say, Fuck you. I don’t give a shit what you think. I’m Beyoncé. I’m going to Ibiza with Jay-Z now, fuck off. Being criticized is part of the job, but seeking it out isn’t. That’s our piece to let go.
11 more months.
*How I’m failing at this: AS WE SPEAK I am in an internet fight about a One Billion Rising event in my town, aka “White People! Do a Little Dance And Pretend You Did Something About Female Genital Mutilation on Valentine’s Day!”
(I am simultaneously living two episodes of The West Wing at once: that one where Toby gets mad at those protestors because their methods are sloppy [conveniently mentioned in the blog post immediately below this one], and the one where Donna is telling Josh not to respond to things on the internet. [Have we discussed how TWW is now on Netflix Instant? Not that, ah, I was searching for it or anything, but did you know there is Toby/Sam fan fiction out there?
The man catches his wrist in a loose grip before Sam even realises that he’s reached out to touch him. “That’s what you came back here to tell me,” he says, sceptical. [SIC] His thumb is stroking along the vein in Sam’s wrist, feeling the pulse-point hammering beneath his thin skin. Sam is dizzy with desire.