… To Make a Difference
Whenever someone asks me what I want out of life, I always say the same three things: to be a mother, to be a writer, and to make a difference. I try really hard to be good. I smile as much as possible. I say please and thank you all the time. I recycle. I refuse to litter. I refuse to gossip. I try not to lead boys ons. I try not to say no to favours.
This does not sound like much.
When I was younger, I was a fierce advocate for all kinds of rights. I would yell and wave my arms at just about anyone who dred utter even the slightest injustice: pay for me? pay.for.me? what, you think I can’t pay for my own drinks? (To be fair, men in Greece are quite old-fashioned and are actually insulted by independent women so my reaction was justified.*)
When the situation allows, I still debate. I love it. The other night I got into an Animal versus Human argument. I frowned incessantly. I shouted (let’s blame the gin). I gesticulated wildly. Half-way through, I smiled. I said, I really missed this! It was wonderful because I realised that passion does not wane with youth, it simply chooses its battles. Nowadays, I fight with different tools: I try to live by example.
It’s exhausting. Being the best person you can possibly be all the time is exhausting. I do not know how good my best is, but I know I try. I want to be the kind of person that makes others want to be better people.
And my mother tries to tell me I lack ambition.
Yes. This is really what is following To Make a Difference.
I want luxury. I don’t want every single thing in my life to be fantastically expensive. It don’t need marble baths and Louis Vuitton socks. I would like some options though. I would like a lion-foot bath for example. Preferably antique, obviously. I want a classic, quilted Chanel bag (just one). Maybe a pair of Louboutins. I would like exotic fruit available all the time. I want to be able to throw wild theme parties. I want cashmere blankets and angora cardigans. I want to travel. I really want to travel. And I want luxuries like giving my kids a treehouse, and having a guest bedroom. I want bar in my house. Who are we kidding? That last one’s going to happen anyway.
Okay, actually, this list is pretty long. Still, appreciating luxury is not something for which I will apologise. First of all, it’s not like I’ve had much of it. Secondly, for me, luxury doesn’t equate to designer labels, but rather, a way of life. Thirdly, just because I’m not materialistic, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the finer things in life.
I just want enough to feel special. Don’t you?
… Vegetarian Marshmallows/ Gummi Bears/ Cherry Ripes
Alas, in Greece, they are nowhere to be found.
Does the former even exist?
The middle was once consumed by this very writer back in 2006 and did not receive very positive feedback.
The latter, oh the latter… was just about to be eaten when the deal-breaking ingredient was discovered: gelatine. Allow me to explain.. Cherry Ripes are a childhood favourite chocolate. They are very common in Australia, and very uncommon everywhere else. Having lived in Greece since I was six, any packages sent by relatives were savaged for the sweets. It was ugly. Now, it doesn’t make a difference. I am a Cherry Ripe reject; they refuse to be eaten by me. Fuck you, Cherry Ripe. And while we’re on the topic, fuck you too, Minties. You’re mints; why the fuck do you contain pig marrow or whatever the hell gelatine is made of these days?
… Toned, Scarless Arms
Yes, yes, we all know I love my scars. I’m hardcore- woohoo! But having been a little bit scarred for almost a decade, and fairly scarred for almost a year, I must admit that anonymous skin is alluring. Last summer, it hit me: is he checking me out, or is he checking out my scars? I want to know that people stare at me because I’m hot, not because my skin blushes and ripples. (Maybe I should also be wanting a more manageable ego.)
Most of my scars don’t bother me, but for some reason, the ones on the underside of my arms really do. I just want to be able to wear a tank-top. Ah, first-world problems. Since I’m wishing for stuff, yeah, I want them to be super toned too. It’s the only part of my body that won’t tone naturally. Damn you, arms. You’re failing me.
… World Peace
I REALLY DO! Why can’t people just like each other? I don’t understand. And if they can’t do that, why can’t they be indifferent towards each other. And if they can’t do that, why can’t they dislike each other without hurting each other. And if they can’t do that, why can’t they not kill each other. I mean, really, people, how hard is it? No judgement according to race, gender or religion (unless you’re part of some cult; that’s just weird). I just do not understand how inflicting pain comes so easily to come. Once I cried all the way home because I accidentally killed a bee…
Once upon a time, way back in 2009, I discovered a bee had stung my flip-flop. It must have thought it was being attacked. My heart ached for him. Bees are such valiant little creatures; they sting only when they believe their lives are threatened, and once they sting, they die. How fucking noble is that? So I’m standing in the middle of the pavement, holding my flip-flop at eye level, feeling all emotional when I realised the bugger (no pun intended) was still alive. That meant it was suffering. That meant I had to kill it. Fuck.me.
Yes, that is how much I love animals. Please don’t roll your eyes/ despair. I get plenty of that in real life.
In the end, I couldn’t do it. I flicked him off, got into a taxi and cried all the way home. Why? Because of my selfishness. I couldn’t bring myself to kill him so he suffered. I was selfish.
I have no idea what I was talking about before the bee story.
Right, world peace. Want it.
… PEOPLE TO LEARN HOW TO FUCKING SPELL
Yes, that deserved capitals.
I would write more about this, but someone has already written the perfect post. Read it here. But first read the rest of my post and then comment , mmmkay?
… To Be Quoted
I want my name on Fuck Yeah, Literary quotes.
I want people to use me and my words during an argument, It’s like Alexia Roux once said…
I want people to hear my quotes and say, yes! yes, that is so true! I couldn’t have said it better myself! SHE’S A GENIUS!
Okay, maybe that last part was a little bit excessive. But you get the gist.
I want more hair. I’ve always had very fine hair and thus it’s always been the bane of my existence. I don’t want my mane (or lack thereof) to be the bane of my existence. Everyone tells me I’m lucky because I’m tangle-free, because it’s soft, because of many other reasons. I don’t give a rat’s ass. I would love to complain about my hair. I would love to need to blow-dry it, to have wild curls, to feel it swish against my back. I would love not to have to cut it every two months (yes, even my hair is that goddamn sensitive). Often I feel like I’m less of a woman because of it. Hair is hot. Not cool, genes. Not cool at all. That’s why I’m crazy jealous of Brigitte Bardot and Laetitia Casta’s sister and even Lindsay Lohan (yes, really). Seriously, that’s the main (no pun intended) reason I envy them.
No point in lusting after lustrous hair though. That’s just not going to happen.
I would like to apologise to my daughters in advance though. Sorry, kids, you got that from me. Unless you’re one of the adopted ones, in which case, blame your biological crackhead/knocked-up cheerleader/ random Asian peasant parents. Love, Future Mommy.
What do YOU want?