Pixie's Pad

Edit – so I misspelled blasé, as I frequently do, and forgot to go back and fix it. I was intending to, but since someone just pointed out to me that I’ve misspelled it with ‘spelling mistakes are for plebeians’, I’m going to leave it as it is – because being a plebeian is better than being a manner-less troglodyte.

Greetings!

I find myself increasingly jealous of your blaze attitude to life. How fantastic it must be to throw parties in your front lawn at midnight on a week night, and you living in a quiet cul-de-sac to boot! – without fear of waking the residents of the houses that share the same auditory space! How truly wonderful it must feel to conduct frivolous conversations at borderline shouting level, when your boisterously affluent guests are a mere couple of feet away! Ah, to throw away the bonds of ethics and morality in favour of a conscience-less bacchanalian way. How exhuberent your festivities!

It is with sorrow in my heart that I am forced to watch from our darkened window as you beep the car horn with carefree abandon in the early hours in the morning. With pangs of longing for a freer childhood I watch as your riotous progeny scamper gaily across our lawn, expressing their remorseless dasein with exhuberent shouts and yells,  and throw the dross of their nutritionless indulgence to our dog. Oh, how he loves licking the sugary sweetness from the ice lolly wrapper, and in his fervour imbibes more than his fair share of the plastic itself! (We will, of course, be forwarding any veterinary bills accrued as a result of any indigestion problems suffered to yourselves – since you can apparently afford to cavort in the street at midnight on a weeknight when many of the street’s other residents are clambering for a few scant hours of sleep before work in the morning, I’m sure this won’t be a problem).

Though our sleep is disturbed, though we rise early for a day of toiling, forced to suffer an hour or more of sluggish traffic to the city to earn a meager wage and being woken up in the wee hours assures a grumpy, bitter morning that will be plied with copious amounts of coffee and jaw-clenching, our only solace is that our suffering is worthwhile – we suffer through the joy of others, and joy is a wonderful thing to behold! (Even though I have to comb the garden for debris every morning following one of your soirees, lest the dog consume the sticky half-finished candy that your offspring deposited, no doubt from mistaking our lawn for a wheelie bin – a common and easy mistake to make, I gather – and find himself suffering the canine biological response to an overdose of sugar. Namely, death.)

Thank you, dear neighbours, for your thoughtful reminder to us that life is about more than trying to get six hours sleep a night. That we should abandon the slings and arrows of civility and social conduct and instead feel free to pursue enjoyment whenever WE feel like it – and anyone who happens to be in earshot of your racket, be damned!

With utmost respect, and a coveted longing for your complete disregard of the fact that you live in a house in a street in a neighbourhood with other actual real people who are statistically probably not all deaf,

Your humble slaves-to-compassion at #7.

Feel free to roll your eyes and click away.

I think the problem I have with Valentine’s Day can be summed up quite nicely by sharing a little analogy.

A few years back, I was living with a guy. It was approaching V-Day and he asked me what I wanted.

Me: I don’t want anything. If you feel you’d like to get me a gift, I’d rather it on any other day.
Him: Okay, I’ll just get you a card, then.
Me: Card falls in the ‘gift’ category.
Him: You don’t even want a card?
Me: I don’t want anything. If you want to show me you care about me, don’t save it for one day. If you get me something I’ll throw it out.

So Valentines rolls around, and he buys me a card anyway. He buys it in front of his mates so that they can all see he’s buying something for his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day. If the gesture wasn’t completely thin before that, he ensured that it was utterly devoid of all meaning.

Valentine’s day is one day. It’s one day where people force themselves to buy flowers, chocolates, cuddly toys and greetings cards because if they don’t – what? They feel left out? They feel bad? They feel irresponsible?

If you love someone, if you care about someone, if you want to let someone know you thought about them, do it sporadically. It’s much more touching, heart-felt and honest than being romantic because society is pressuring you to be.