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August 6, 2012 | by  | in Features | [ssba]

Walking On Sunshine

People do indeed suck



I know.
You are happy.

Your life must be truly fabulous: a real rollicking ride of sex, flirtation and sex. Penguin will call you soon. But I don’t want to know about it. I don’t care if you are content or chuffed or really bouncy and chipper about life. You’re probably lying. And if you’re not, well then I hate you even more. Happiness is charming but telling me about it isn’t going to get you a Nobel. In fact you make life worse. You, you all-too-smiling reader: your happiness hurts.

The following types of people make me suffer:

Those who feel they must take it upon themselves to tell me about their great social lives.

I don’t have one. And I don’t want to know about yours. It goes like this:

Happy person: Me and Rebecca are getting on just swell at the moment. It’s been going six months!!! (pause for appreciation).

Me: No way. That is really remarkable. Tell me more.

Happy person: Yeah it’s great. We just understand each other ya know. Real intimately. I have a question for you, though, I have been pondering: do you think…

Me: (I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care, go away please now please).

Happy person: Do you think it’s weird that she hasn’t had sex with me for a few days now?

Me: No I think it’s fine. You are separate individuals. Not an amoeba. (You prick.)

I don’t enjoy these conversations. People take it upon themselves to inflict their feelings of goodness upon those who evidently aren’t. As if, knowing how much my life sucked relative to theirs was somehow going to help me. It don’t. Stop. Now. Please.

Those who always feel a duty to tell me their great results.

These people are coy. They don’t just come out and say it, as they want to (and should). They seek instead to ply me first for mine. How did you go? Average. Yeah, but you’re just saying that. How did you actually go?

I got 58 per cent.

Oh, right, cool. Next ensues a massive delay as the perpetrator of this social crime waits for their gold star. I am not going to give you a gratification hand job.

Well how did you go? I got an A. Oh that’s great, really great (me, already trying to walk away). Yeah it was real random (I bet it was) I just didn’t really study at all (your weight begs to differ) and then just sauntered (wanker) into the exam and just got it all. I mean it was a pretty fair exam.

Yeah real fair. I really am a 58 per cent. Thanks. Bye now.

Those who hold hands in public.

I am not a conservative, Eton student from the ’50s (unfortunately); No I am liberal. Mostly. But here I draw the line. There I am wending my way home, minding my own business, when I am intruded by a vile display of republican courtship. Hands grasped: uncomfortable, neither really fit into the other, they awkwardly stride, not quite fitting the footpath, blockading my way—not that it matters; because they are in ‘love’. How twee. I just want to run up and grasp them and tell them: “I don’t care that you go out. I’m not going to take her away. She will not leave you when you let go.”

It’s okay that you like each other. I don’t have a problem with relationships per se (I can cook, and iron and console, in case you wondered). But I do take issue with this obsession of public intimacy. Whether it be holding hands, kissing, or bringing flowers, it is unnecessary. Kiss in private. Hold hands in your bedroom. Give her flowers but bring them to her flat not to her at a Café. It’s not that I feel sad because I am alone and I see that you are not. Normally your relationship is far more dysfunctional than your handholding lets on. No, what saddens me is you. Your inability to separate for the ten-minute walk home. The need to express your desire whenever you can as if it’s your duty. It’s not. Think up something more meaningful than a sunflower, and give it to her later. When you are alone together. Alone. Together. Please.

Yes, I hate a lot of you. And yes, you are probably far happier, productive, efficient, endorphin-producing, nice-complexion-possessing people. Good for you. But inflicting it upon me as if it were some kind of competition is a grotesque display of character, which inhibits your own personal development and hurts me. Stop it. Happiness is not only real when shouted at the rest of the world. It’s an individual thing. Stop disrupting my misanthropy. ▲

P.S. If you read this and think, “But Duncan, you do all these things!” euthanise me.


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