"Alone, even doing nothing, you do not waste your time. You do, almost always, in company. No encounter with yourself can be altogether sterile: Something necessarily emerges, even if only the hope of some day meeting yourself again." (E.M. Cioran)

Saturday, July 29, 2006

Whinge-o-rama

After a week at home - sick with a bad cold - it's a sunny day, so I decide to venture out into the city to try and find a copy of an elusive new 7" record by a favourite music group (such are the pleasures of my - generally useless - existence). Bad move. An excursion to town these days only serves to further embitter me towards my fellow humans, despite having spent the last few days mulling over the importance of compassion towards others. Oh, well..
Everywhere I go, hordes of people teem, filling up any piece of available space; escalators clogged with the overfed bodies of inseparable couples who, clutching each other's hands, use these modes of transport as joyrides upon which they can remain static, whilst kissing and fondling one another like characters in their own movie, oblivious to the backlog of fellow travellers behind them. The need for refreshment is fatal. Food halls housing a multitude of globalised, corporatised, franchised outlets have replaced humble cafes and are, again, filled to the brim with teeming multitudes, all gobbling down their cakes and sushi, sandwiches, crepes and stuffed potatoes - drinking trendy drinks from franchise 'juice' bars (which are composed mainly of bacteria-laden crushed ice), crapping on about their inane purchases, as if it was of actual world-shattering importance.
Women are the worst. Why are they so gullible to this bogus, manipulated ('consuming is cool') idea of "retail therapy"? Could someone please explain the therapeutic value of being stuck in a designer shoe store sale, for example, with throngs of women squawking and grabbing at products like starving seagulls? And on that note, what exactly is this psychotic desire in women to purchase ridiculously impractical shoes, regularly, with the ostentatious swagger of victory, as if each item collected represents a major achievement. It's out of control.
Cluttered with designer bags, gabbling on about how "those shoes would go well with a short skirt" or "that top would look good with my new jeans" etc. etc. to their friends and hapless partners (I admit I've been guilty of this myself!) and all the while, their husbands are just following after them - pushing prams, carrying shopping, listening to this endless crap - just (seemingly) happy to be part of it. Something to build a life around, I guess. Get me out of here!

1 comment:

rntyjack said...

Couldn't agree more. Sojourns into the city retail district are something one must steal oneself against, its an onslought of brainless, pointless piffle. As are weekend lunches with souless, brain dead fembots who try desparately to be your friend just to stick you with metaphorical hot pokers. I've had enough, no more, never again. Yours in whinging, jack