Coupled with my crippling fear of dropping my car keys down a drain, (I might just pop them down a drain one of these days just to get the ensuing bloody drama over with since, according to Susan Jeffers way back in 1987 we’re all supposed to Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway, although I doubt my menopausal neuroses and intrusive thoughts** are what she had in mind when she sat down at her Olivetti. And how do you write a book with nothing more than a sentence to go on? Surely it’s an easy enough concept to grasp without writing a bloody book about it eg:
Person: “I’m scared of public speaking”
Susan Jeffers: “Oh don’t be daft – feel the fear and do it anyway”
Person: “Oh okay”
How can a person put a whole book’s worth of meat on to the bones of a sentence?
So coupled with keys down drains fear, I also now suffer from FOBO. FOBO, or Fear Of Being Offline, is the latest acronym to become adopted and assimilated into the self-centred lexicon of made-up things from which technologically dependent tits like me can say they suffer.
My FOBO makes me pick up my phone and do a bleary-eyed sweep of all my social media accounts (and I’ve got them ALL) if I wake up during the night. My FOBO makes me fire up the iPad as soon as I get in from work, lie on my bed and fake-buy things I don’t need*. My FOBO makes me sleep with seventy gadgets.
The thing is, I can’t remember how I filled my time pre-Internet. I must’ve spent hours looking at the underwear pages of catalogues and reading the backs of cereal packets. I can’t remember doing much else. I certainly didn’t have any improving hobbies or worthy pursuits beyond sorting my nail polish collection and smoking.
*fake-buying is the process of spending two hours on eg ASOS, adding £400 worth of stuff to a virtual basket, then simply moving on to eg the Dorothy Perkins website and starting the process again, without buying a damned thing. I’m singlehandedly responsible for the state of the economy, quantitative easing and various other economic terminologies and crises I don’t fully understand. I could always google them, I suppose.
** I had a new intrusive thought last week. I was coming in from a 9pm fag at the back door scenario and wondered what it would be like if I shut my fingers in the back door which is about six inches thick and would survive a nuclear blast. I even did a wee heebyjeeby shudder at the thought of it. I’ve no idea why I’m confessing this.
Shut The Fuck Up And Take My Bloody Money
As regular readers may be aware, Tatty Devine and I – we got previous, but heavens to Betsy look at this! I’m willing to forgive them Dinosaur Necklace-gate for this conversation starter…
OOOOOOHHHH!!! Pretty though, innit?