I hate that I love that
|April 18, 2012||Posted by Rosie Watterson under lifestyle|
Let me start by saying I’m not proud of much in this article. In fact, most of it fills me with a deep-rooted shame. As you read you will likely say to yourself, “Wow, I really thought she was better than that,” and all I can say is yes, so did I – but it appears I’m not.
Run fat boy, run!
Unfortunately I don’t mean the film, which would be perfectly acceptable to like. Rather, I’m talking about the programs based around grossly obese people trying to lose weight. There’s just something engrossing about them (see what I did there). As if this weren’t embarrassing enough, I always make sure to be eating some sort of junk food while watching, usually a Chinese. I’m not sure why, but the shows make me hungry. It must be something about the participants huffing and puffing up hills, craving food, and generally having a hard time that makes my dinner taste so much better.
Shortest joke ever: Two women were sitting quietly. Ba Dum Tss
I laughed. Need I say more?
Oh I’m sorry, was I not meant to read that?
Most of the time I’m not a nosy person – honest I’m not. Gossip? Not interested. Personal life? Count me out. But as soon as I see something written on paper I must read it. This became particularly apparent when I was left unsupervised in my friend’s student accommodation for an entire day. It was like leaving a heroin addict alone with the good stuff; I was bound to fail. And because of this I feel it was partially not my fault.
Admittedly, it was particularly unfortunate that my friend was an avid writer but not a master of camouflage. I’d like to think that had his work been in a journal I’d have never opened it. Yeah, right. But I’d at least like to think I would only have skimmed it and then put it back, feeling ashamed of myself. This is not what happened. His room was like a forest, full of hidden rubies buried beneath leaves and logs and folders, each piece more beautiful than the last. Before I knew what was going on I was in a ruby-collecting frenzy, crashing through branches and documents and drawers, going crazy with curiosity. By the time I realised what I had done, I was waste deep in personal documents. I’m half-proud to admit I did tell him. I must get some points for that? Right? No. OK.
Watching this is a form of self harm. I don’t enjoy it. It revolts me. Yet I watch. I feel the programme lulls me into a false sense of security: oh, an arm blister? Totally ok. Oh, a hair condition? No problem. Then bam! A gentleman’s unhealthy privates blasted the full length and width of my 42-inch TV screen! A range of emotions ambushes me: horror, pity, revulsion, mortification. I do not make it through the second half of my Chinese food, instead having a bath to make myself feel clean again. And yet the next day I will bound across the channels enthusiastically as soon as I see the show is on again. It’s not the shame of falling into the hole, it’s the shame of getting up and doing it again, and again, and again.
Oh! You meant that Pete?
I’m getting better at this one, thankfully – I was running out of friends. This is how it usually goes:
Emily: “No, George doesn’t fancy me, he fancies Miriam. But he only told me 10 minutes ago and he’s just started to trust me, so please don’t tell him, OK?”
Me: “Oh hi George! I hear you fancy Miriam, or is it Georgia? I can’t tell the difference.”
*Emily chokes, splutters, and dies*
Or like this:
Tori and Liv: “So we wrote a song about Pete and it goes like this:”
*Proceed to sing funky Pete song*
Tori and Liv: “But you mustn’t sing it around him!”
Me: “No problem.”
*Later that evening*
Me: “Hey Pete! I know a song about you! Those girls wrote it. Actually, come to think about it, I think they asked me not to tell you. Oops. It’s a very good song though…”
I don’t know what comes over me. I have no intention of spilling the beans when people tell me secrets; it’s not pre-planned. But as soon as I see the subject of the secret my arms get goosebumps, my heart rate increases, and all I can think, all I can say is the one thing I shouldn’t. OK, poor excuse. Most of the time I actually think: ”How much damage could it actually do? Lets find out, it will be amusing.”
The last subject in my confessional involves Kanye West, Pitbull, Childish Gambino, Flo Rida, and Dappy. I was raised on a diet of Joan Jett, ACDC, Otis Redding and Bruce Springsteen: I should have turned out better than this. I tell myself I’m “keeping with the times,” evolving my music taste in a healthy way, but I know I’m not. Instead of Jett’s confidence-oriented lyrics – “I don’t give a damn ’bout my bad reputation” – I’m listening to misogynist words along the lines of “make our bitches work it on the floor,” and, worst of all, I’m loving it.