Lady Capulet

I often think about my death, on evenings when I get a strange sense of foreboding, like it is coming, and that I should prepare myself. Maybe I’ll get to be one of the very few that gets to go doing something they love- maybe I’ll be one of the few that falls back on a toilet seat and knocks their head the wrong way and crosses into the afterglow with shit streaming down their legs, written down somewhere on a piece of paper in a morgue and never spoken about because people are still embarrassed for the dead. If there is an afterlife I would be upstairs trying to remind all you retards as much as possible about the truly hilarious way that I died, maybe possessing people to over think the amount of toilet signs in buildings so that wherever you went, the symbol of my demise would be there with you.
I would want you all to laugh though. On conflicting summer afternoons with cool breezes, or where you see a strangeness that seems natural and yet otherworldly. I would only want my friends and family to continue traveling, everywhere, always, and always taking me with them in their thoughts, sharing moments on mountains and sunsets and cliff faces and even at the end of a line or at the swallowing of an acid tab. Just traveling, and laughing. That’s all I’d ever want anyone who loved me to do.
I’ll pull a Socrates and welcome death as the next adventure. And because of that I wouldn’t want to be buried in the ground, I’d want to be burnt to high heaven, probably with popcorn kernels in my stomach at the time. Call me macabre.
I probably wouldn’t say no to a portrait being painted of me in my absence, I’m narcissistic like that, but only a portrait with eery likeness so I can make people who forget what I look like over time feel uncomfortable, and giggle from all the high places in our non existent heaven, I’ll be part of the atoms of the earth under your feet but my face will be staring back at you, wishing your most uncomfortable state. Because going toward uncomfortable, welcoming your own fear as your bedmate, it’s the only way to truly be alive. Surely that’s how it works in death, too.

chessys:

i want 2 be the kind of girl you meet at a party and end up sitting on a bridge with to watch the sun rise still wearing last nights clothes and sharing a kiss that means nothing but the closing of space and leaves nothing but a memory ur not sure isnt a dream

(via petitetimidgay)

I was reading an article on Monica lewinsky the other day, and it linked me to a TED talk that she spoke last year. Asides from being an amazing public speaker and having endured something that I could never even possibly wrap my head around, let alone imagine, she demonstrated an amazing ability to reflect on the things she’s learned in the last twenty years, and make it relatable. I’ve been thinking about her a lot. In her speech, she described just how humiliating, just how malicious, and just how aggressively judgemental the human race can be, in a time where we were just beginning to access the news via the Internet, on a world wide scale.
When I was working yesterday, we got pummelled for five hours straight. For anyone who has ever worked Mother’s Day in hospitality, it is an intense, densely populated, stressful, and highly trumped up day that has businesses booming but staff trying desperately to ride the wave of every man and his mother (and sometimes their pets; my favourite part) ascending in droves on the banks of the Yarra, to obligatorily feed and water the women that have been doing just that for them, for most of their lives. Midway through service and a woman who was paying came up to me, hugged me, gave me five dollars, and told me that my service had been fantastic and that, given how busy it was, she admired my resilience. It felt good. Many times yesterday I was told that I was doing a good job by patrons. I promise you though, that if I had upset just one table, they would have plastered that all over the Internet for the world to see.
I have, many times in my life, told a waitress or a waiter that they had been fantastic, and meant it. But I have never given a good review on the Internet.
I have, in response to articles that are incorrect or infuriating, steadfastly attacked the opinion of others, however. I’ve told sexists that they are ignorant, racists that they are backwards, grammatically corrected the world. I don’t generally bash celebrities, but I know people that do. I’ve screen-shot statuses and sent them to my friends, laughing at the authors’ ridiculousness. I wonder if I’ve written a good word for every bad one that I have written on my electronic devices.
It seems to me, that the fact that we can so easily be negative and unhappy has translated, in its worst way, to the Internet.
Why haven’t I read as many good reviews on restaurants as I have bad? Why is it easier to say something negative (even if it is defending a righteous opinion for those that don’t have a voice) than it is to say something positive? Why do I see article after catty article bashing people in the media that we don’t know? I mean, I know Donald trump is a wanker, I know that, but did you see that beautiful moment where the sun poked through the clouds over Southbank today? Did you tell someone about it? Did you see someone’s negative status and write something nice on it instead? Monica lewinsky said, that at one point in her life, her mother was scared that the humiliation, the shame, would kill her. That’s terrifying. There are people killing themselves every day from cyber bullying. Cyber bullying is beginning to take over suicide rates more so than regular, face to face bullying. We are all addicted to the toxicity of our synthetic, negative, Internet selves.
Do you know what she also said? She said that shame cannot survive empathy.
That really hit a cord with me, because for a lot of my life, all I wanted was to be understood. I’m sure most of us feel like that. It’s a natural instinct. We all want to belong, and we all want to know that we aren’t the only breathing creatures that feel like we do, that hurt like we do.
If there’s a status written by a person on Facebook and your first thought is “they are just trying to get my attention”, it’s because they are. We all are. That’s what social media is for. Why put a status up if you don’t want someone to read it?
What I’m saying, is that we seem to lose our compassion when we talk to a screen. We lose the ability to understand one another’s need for acceptance, and belonging. We lose the ability to empathise. And it’s hurting all of us.
I implore you; write a good review for every bad one. Say a good word for all the shitty ones. Think a positive thought for every negative. Stop judging every word that is generated on a screen in front of you as if it isn’t a person on the other side. That waitress you’re bitching about? That’s her job you’re fucking with. That celebrity your slamming? You have no idea how manipulative the media is. It feels good to be good to each other, why aren’t we doing it? This is all simple stuff. I’m sure our parents or our teachers tried to tell us that if we thought a positive thought every time we had a sad one we would be naturally happier. It makes sense. There are countless quotes and love songs written about telling people you love them when you have the chance. There are still people behind those words you see on your iPhone. Living, breathing people. Cliche’s exist, mostly, because they are true and have withstood the test of time. So I’ll leave you with ons if you’ve gotten this far in my rant:
Life is short. Don’t be a cunt.