I love being thought of as a flake. It’s so much fun.
I mean, granted, I was one as a teenager. But I don’t think it’s fair to count that for anything. I was a teenager. They’re all flaky, it’s part of the job description, isn’t it?
I’ve gotten a heck of a lot better since then and I really wish the whole ‘flake’ label would just evaporate. Seems like I’ll be stuck with the dumb label ‘til the day I die though. It almost makes me just want to give in and embrace it, become the flakiest flake to ever flake.
That’s not going to happen though. Know why? Because along with being an ex-flake, I’m also a stubborn ass. Hurricane was the first one to call me that (I was more offended at being associated with a donkey than at the fact that, technically, she’d sworn at me) and in the years since, I’ve leaned into that even more and now possibly resemble the little toddler I’d once been, just with a better vocabulary.
She’s learned to stop complaining about my stubbornness as I’ve been very clear about the fact that I take it as a compliment.
Being called a flake, though? That still puts me off. The only flake I’ve ever wanted to be associated with is that amazing chocolate one – by the way, if you’ve ever done something and need to make it up to me, there’s a clue. Buy me flakes. I’ll almost certainly get distracted and let you escape unscathed.
Why am I ranting about flakes today? Well, it goes back to Hurricane, obviously. Hurricane and her nasty habit of making assumptions about me.
I’m ill today. I’ve been leaking snot and sweat and tears like some sort of disgusting broken tap. I hate being ill but I loathe messy illnesses specifically with a passion. Is it not enough that I get to be in pain and my brain stops working? I also have to look like a freaking horror movie?
Ten layers of make up couldn’t give me back the healthy glow of a normal human being. I was doomed to look like some kind of zombie freak show that would scare little babies and be best served just sticking a bag on my head to protect the world from the yuck.
On such days, everything annoys me. No, I take that back. Everyone annoys me.
And the bad day continues with just all the people deciding that today’s the day to get on my nerves.
Let me tell you a well-known fact about me; when I’m hungry, I get mad. Real mad. It’s not remotely cute. I get better as soon as I eat but while I’m hungry, especially if there’s someone directly responsible for that hunger, I’m plotting a graphic, violent murder.
Possibly with some added cannibalism. (Nah, people would taste nasty). I’d rather stick to a juicy beef hamburger. With caramelized onions and melted cheese. Oh, and barbecue basting. Never forget that!
As you can probably tell, I’m a food lover. I’ve been known to plan my day around the restaurants I want to hit. Good food is one of the few pleasures in life I’m determined to enjoy without a shred of shame. I really don’t care about calories or grease or whatever. That’s what exercise is for.
I’d rather eat whatever I want and have a blast than choke down flavourless slop and pretend I’m having fun while glaring holes into some other poor, unsuspecting idiot’s meal. And no, I’m not one of those food lovers who boycotts veggies and whole grains. I just eat it all. But I cannot stand meal replacements. They make me gag and they look like nothing more than liquidized gunk. I like to chew my food, thanks.
The Hurricane seems to adore them, though. But that might just be because she burnt off her taste buds years ago spitting all that acid.
Gah! She’s turning me bitter. No ways. I refuse to let her turn me into a wrinkled old crone whose only pastime is blaming other people for the state of their lives.
All I need to do is get out.
Which… easier said than done, I know. Even for normal people who can swallow their pride.
Turning into a bitter crone would be a heck of a lot easier – and more natural for someone like me. But, wrinkled, shrivelled anything is just not a good look. So, no thanks, miss me with that.
But, back to the problem – people not letting me eat when I need to. I don’t know where this habit comes from (probably the bowels of Hell) but unfailingly, when I’m trying to enjoy a bit of relaxation time, it’s somehow a signal to the World at Large that I desperately need people arriving to come and ask me the most inane questions.
Or. worse, to remind me of things that I’ve promised to do for them and haven’t yet done. Just a thought – if it’s so darned urgent, why don’t you go and do it yourself? Hmm?
Go look up the definition of a favour and tell me where it says that I’ve somehow accepted indentured servitude when agreeing to do one for you? How is it not yet basic common sense that if you ask for a favour, the person will do it when is convenient for themselves? I am not suddenly springing to my feet to get your thing done, especially not when I’m visibly doing something.
And yeah, I know I’m rude. Here’s the thing – if it’s the first, second or third time you’ve asked me for help? I’ll probably hurry up and get your thing done. But as time goes by and those favours begin to pile up? My urge to be immediately helpful begins to evaporate. Quickly.
I’m just not one of those adorable, selfless dolls who care only for the Almighty’s appreciation. I’m shallow and I want the people I help to darn well notice the effort being put in for their ungrateful selves.