All you're ever gonna be is mean
Do I have to credit Taylor Swift for this title? If so: thanks, Taylor.
For someone who spends a lot of their time writing about themselves and their various introspective musings, you’d be forgiven for thinking I’m a self-aware person. I thought so too, until I recently sent a voice note to a friend and made the mistake of listening back to it. In the seven minute message, I think I said the word ‘like’ roughly two million times. And I was like (lol) – God, is that what I really sound like (lol)? It sounded like (ugh) an audio version of a nine-year-old girl’s diary. Self-aware? Not so much.
I think everyone has a word that could be used to describe them that hurts more than anything else. I find it fascinating to ask other people what that word is for them. Mine has evolved over the years (as my personality has) but I think I have finally settled on the word ‘mean’.
The reason this word – mean, in my case – cuts so deeply is not because it’s categorically untrue. If someone called me boring, or stupid, it wouldn’t particularly hurt my feelings, because I know those things aren’t true, and if someone believes that they are, then they haven’t got a real understanding of who I am – or their definition of what makes a boring or stupid person doesn’t align with my own, therefore I don’t really care what they think. No, on the contrary; the reason the word ‘mean’ hits so hard when someone describes me that way is because I secretly fear it to be true. Insults that hurt the most are the ones that have hit their mark.
As I’ve mentioned several times in this newsletter, for some reason wanting to really hammer home this fact, I didn’t have friends when I was a kid, or even really a teenager – the people I hung around with could have been loosely described as friends, if one were to define that term as someone you spend time with, but I was more of a punching bag for them than a confidante. Partly because they were assholes, but partly because I was, too. As I got older and read more books and watched more TV and met more people, my personality evolved and I decided that the thing I could be known for being was ‘funny’. And it worked; I was funny, and people started to like me, but chasing other people’s laughter sometimes made me push the boundary between funny and cruel. I would do anything to make other people laugh – and jokes are often made at other people’s expense. There’s a difference between gentle ribbing and just plain mocking someone else’s insecurities, and I am sadly still figuring out where that line is – as my patient and forgiving friends can certainly attest.
Although I’d like to think I’ve got a lot better at reigning in my sense of humour, working out where people’s sore spots are and not weaponizing them for the sake of a joke, it’s definitely still a work in progress. Partly because not everyone is like me, blurting out their life story and accompanying insecurities the first time they meet someone, so sometimes by the time I find out where someone’s line is, I’ve already crossed it. I refer you to Dead Parents Society, where I told a colleague that she couldn’t attend our Dead Parents Brunch because her parents weren’t dead, to which she replied that in fact, one of them was. This is obviously an extreme example and was a steep learning curve, and I don’t think I transgress like that very often, but fucking hell, when I do, the consequences are catastrophic.
What’s interesting is that I am actually terrified of hurting people’s feelings; there is nothing in the world that makes me feel worse when I know I’ve upset someone (to clarify, someone I care about. I don’t get upset about hurting the feelings of people I consider to be absolute cunts). And yet I seem to be incapable of avoiding it. I think it’s because deep down, I think that being funny is all I have to offer. I’m probably hovering around a 7, looks-wise; I’m not very smart academically (smart enough to quip one-liners about current events cobbled together from newspaper headlines, but not smart enough to engage in a discussion beyond that). I know that isn’t true – but I also know that people tend to be pigeonholed into certain defining characteristics: the pretty one, the brave one, the smart one. The funny one. And in times of uncertainty, or particularly when meeting new people, I feel the need to assert that quality more than ever. Which – when you don’t know someone, when you don’t know that person is actually kind and giving and would never intentionally want to upset someone – can actually end up earning me the label of The Mean One instead. Ironic? I don’t know. ‘Funny’ is the greatest compliment you can give me, and ‘mean’ is the worst insult. Yet I seem to fluctuate between these two constantly.
I don’t think I’m ever going to get the balance perfectly right; I don’t think anyone ever does. People contain multitudes (think I read that somewhere) and there’s only so much of yourself you can get across in a first impression. If someone still thinks I’m a bitch after spending a good amount of time with me, then maybe they’re right. I suppose we all just have to hope that people will give us enough chances to prove that we’re more than that one word that popped into their head when they met us.
One good thing:
I’m getting a perm this weekend because I’m sick of my hair looking like shit 24/7 and I want it to be all bouncy and wild and blowing in the wind like Carrie Bradshaw’s. At the time of writing I haven’t had it yet, so it being a good thing is as yet unconfirmed. It might end up being next week’s bad thing. Who knows. I had a perm once before but it didn’t really work because my hair was all different lengths while I was growing out that stupid Justin Bieber-ass haircut I got a few years ago. Fingers crossed for second time lucky.
Also, I’ve gone over four months without drunk texting anyone! Is this 30?! I like it!
One bad thing:
I’m pretty sure I was followed home from the station the other day, but because I’ve read enough Buzzfeed articles about personal safety I just walked around my block seventeen times until the guy gave up. Stay alert, gals. And support Buzzfeed. This post is not sponsored by Buzzfeed (I fucking wish).
No con-texts:
On arts and crafts: