If this had happened once, I wouldn’t say anything. Not twice, even. I know this because it has happened way more than once or twice. This is important, though. Please listen up.
Guys and gals of Twitter and whatever else: I’m not going to be your girlfriend.
Is my relationship status necessarily public information? No. Does that (or anything) mean I’m secretly looking for you, someone I interact with occasionally on Twitter, to step in and be the one to experience my Icy Feet of Doom? No.
No one person should feel like this is directed at him/her. We reached a critical mass of this type of attention this week and something had to be said. Now let’s just carry on like normal.
I love you guys. I really do. The chances of it ever being “let’s hop on a plane and lay entwined together on a private beach in the Caribbean” love? Very slim. It’s not worth your hopes.
We don’t speak very often, in part because if we did, it might be considered symptomatic of a multiple personality disorder. I am your self-confidence. I am the version of you inside your head who thinks you are awesome, competent, and capable. Mostly, you keep me under lock and key out of some bizarre Puritanical sense of self-denial, or possibly modesty gone horribly awry. (You do realize that taking me out for a stroll around the block doesn’t automatically render you an arrogant c*ck, right?) However, you’re in a rough spot. You have a lot to do, and you won’t be able to do it if you’re curled up on the floor, weeping and mewling and cursing whatever gods come to mind for gifting you with more sentience than a soft-boiled egg. That’s where I come in. I am here to give you a pep talk.
- You don’t suck. Let me repeat: you don’t suck. If you make a joke about straws, I swear by the Forge of Lemnos I will slap you.
- You can do this. If you couldn’t, you wouldn’t have found your way into this mess.
- No, seriously, you would not have found your way into this mess. Whatever you tell yourself (and everyone else you know, frequently and at length), in jest or in seriousness, about being a moron simply is not true.
- Regarding point 2, how bad is the mess, really? Does it deserve the name “mess”? Let’s call it a challenge. Challenge sounds good. Remember how it feels to be competitive? Right. Let’s do that.
- You like to win. I want you to shut the hell up about fair play and “everyone should enjoy him- or herself!” or whatever self-sacrificing for-the-good-of-the-team bullsh*t you’ve taken to spouting today. Win.
- Stop forcing me to use abusive language. I like you. I don’t want to slap you. We’re on the same side. I have a vested interest in you getting sh*t done, because that means that you might let me out of the Tartarus of your subconscious from time to time. Do you know what kinds of things live in here? Freud would frakking love you. Okay, see? Quit that. Stop using me to beat yourself down.
- You’re great. You can do this.
If that doesn’t give you a boost, I’ll try again later. For now, know that I’m in here, rooting for you 127.5%. It would be more, but you capped me.
This is a follow-up to Speaking of Pink Elephants. The delightful @RobMuhlig sent me a tweet alerting me to the presence of . . . this.
There is a Sturdy Station 2, and someone has thoughtfully defaced it to create . . . wait for it . . . the Turd Station 2.
I know I had nothing to do with this, but I feel proud. I also feel absolutely no impulse to deconstruct it. Awesome.