Skin Deep 242

Skin Deep 242 16 September 2014 242

I have been very rude to somebody and I didn’t mean to be.

This is an official apology. Sort of - because I was only rude about them in my head.

A company sent me an email asking if I could feature their client in the magazine. I confess, I had never heard of their client which means they were not really doing their job correctly. I have heard of Brian The Whack Job and he lives something like ten miles away from me. I don’t know what Brian does or why they call him that but I have definitely heard of him.

So I respond:

“Hi. Thanks for your email. Does she actually do anything?”

I didn’t hear anything for hours and figured that either a) they were busy or b) there was a meeting around a large round table in which six or seven people had a crisis management meeting about whether their client actually did do anything. Or maybe they had a crisis meeting about why they all got up that morning. I like the sound of the last two of those options best.

I hit the web to find out who she was to discover some nice tattoos, a pretty face and vacuous social media feed that was so jaw achingly vacant and aimed at other members of the walking dead, I threw up on my keyboard then stabbed myself in the hand with a fork to make sure I was still part of this world.

I put the matter to one side and went about my day but as my own sand trickled away, I started to overthink it. She’s probably a lovely person. She is somebody’s daughter. I would raise all of the demons in hell if somebody was mean about my daughter - and have. She may be somebody’s mother. Maybe, just maybe, I should give it a whirl and see what happens. I might be surprised. Maybe the readers of Skin Deep like that sort of thing. Maybe I’ll find myself standing out in the cold in days of future past because she became the next Kat Von D and won’t ever speak to me. Seriously, these things need to go through the filter in my head.

Being famous for being famous is a tough call. Fifteen years ago, she would be working in a bank or a cafe - and there’s nothing wrong with that at all. It’s something. Being famous for being famous in your own social media world is a nothing - and yet, everywhere I look, somebody thinks they rock like a motherfucker.

It’s 2014 and everybody is somebody’s hero. How lame.

So my question to the world this week is: “What are you bringing to the table?” It’s actually my job to ask that I’m while studying your ink.

Maybe I’m getting old. Hell, I am getting old, but I only achieved that by not dying. It’s not hard. It’s not even an achievement. If you’re reading this, you have ‘achieved’ it too. Congratulations. Let’s throw a party and post it on our social feeds but there’s a big difference between being alive and living. One is a biological process that we’re all (more or less) geared up for, the other involves making positive decisions about what road to drive along and what you’re going to do when you get there. I like the sound of hitting an open road, buying some people a coffee along the way - even though they never asked me to - and leaving a trail of raised eyebrows that somebody so damn sexy would do something like that. I don’t however much like the sound of driving down the road throwing flyers out of the car window branded with the message “Everybody Look At Me Because I Am Here.”

If you didn’t exist, would somebody really invent you?

Are you somebody worth being?

Anyway, I wrote this - on my phone - sitting in the car park of a motorway service station on the M1. I thought I had it wrapped but as I was about to leave, a black BMW convertible with new plates parked about ten feet away from me. Who should jump out of it, but Nobody and Nobody’s Friend. Laughing, with the wind in their hair and a Versace wardrobe, I watched them skip like lambs across the tarmac. All eyes were upon them. Then I scowled at my own face in the rearview mirror but neither I nor my reflection could decide who was playing this game correctly.

Get good ink. That’s all I got.


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