Thinking out loud: PLEASE AUTHENTICATE MY EXISTENCE!!!

This may read like an accusatory letter to you but it is more panic-induced textual diarrhoea...

I had to yell that out to you to fully express the desperation, the intrinsic expedition for public approval – as inspired by an article on the guardian website by Charlie Brooker who has the phrase, "PLEASE AUTHENTICATE MY EXISTENCE!" stuck in my head.

No, really, think about it. Is every dialogue a plea for endorsement? We.Need.Help!

Every time I watch a video on YouTube or go on a website such as the Guardian or Daily Mail (I am not admitting that I visit this website a lot, but sometimes... I do...), it is always a vital part of the scopophilic process to go to the comments to see the audience reaction to whatever post I am reading. It is a spectrum of colourful representations- the angry commenter, the awe-struck fan, the indifferent, the instigator and the ‘X celebrity brought me here!’ It reads like a very bad novel. There is the person who needs to stand out via the randomness of their comment (sometimes, knee-slappingly hilarious, other times it deserves a lowercase ‘lol’ with no expression on your face). What has become increasingly clear after reading today’s article is this:

“The internet is a bit like a soap opera, in that the dialogue often seems phoney. As a human, you know this. You know a lot of that squabbling and babbling just doesn't ring true. No species that angry could have survived the invention of fists. Online, even a whimsical chit-chat about the cutest part of a kitten can rapidly descend into a bitterly entrenched civil war that tears families apart, with brother turning on brother while their mother looks on, weeping. Resolving Palestine looks like a piece of piss by comparison.”

Charlie Brooker, via the guardian.

If keyboard thuggery were played out in real life (why has NO ONE shot this for Worldstar yet??) It would be a lot of awkward silences whilst one’s opponent thinks up, backspaces, and retypes an exclamation mark, capslock ridden response- back and forth it would go, with its polite pauses in the middle. This is not the way it would go in real life and more than half the things said online probably would not dare be uttered to the opposition’s face in reality! Yet sitting behind a computer, keyboard thuggery gives right of way to the thug with the highest vocabulary and wit, well thought out, impeccably (debatable) constructed to destroy the empire of their opponent, to the adoring “likers”, thumbs-uppers, retweeters, 

LOL/LMAO/ROFLMFAO-ers of the webosphere! PLEASE AUTHENTICATE MY EXISTENCE!

We are at war, people! At war with each other but mostly with ourselves. We are torn between who we are (average Joe, average Jane) and who we so desparately want to be, therefore we use these online avenues as an opportunity to replicate that day dream about the best version of you. The reason Instagram is so successful is because it has the ability to transform everyday activities into a dramatic, hipsterific adventure. The movie Catfish scared me because it is true. It is actually an old woman’s desire to be young again, to attract the men she probably once did, so she creates a profile, an avatar, a personality – she has this opportunity to become a different person – she’s screaming “PLEASE AUTHENTICATE MY EXISTENCE.”

Every aspect of our lives, wields the desire to be validated! Whether you want to admit it or not! We are constantly seeking approval of something or someone – banks, employers, potential life partners, potential one night standers, our pets, our children, our friends, our enemies – there is always something or someone who we ask to kindly AUTHENTICATE OUR EXISTENCE! Whatever conversation you have today will bear a subliminal message (you have the option to choose what voice you want to hear this in; Yoda, I choose you!!) Is it fair to say that pretty much every dialogue is very much like a job interview: from conversations on a first date to casual banter with friends. In both situations, you are seeking approval - one is just more overt and shameless than the other. This is why every research based on surveys is a pile of hooey!

Charlie's right, the internet is not to blame; we have been running this marathon since before the advent of the “www”...  For as long as we have been able to communicate, we have sought out authentication, we voice our thoughts and opinions in the hopes that at least one person concurs. No man wants to stand alone- not even those who so desperately want to stand out! Loneliness is not appealing; we all want to know that even when we stand out there is someone standing out with us! We want to be accepted! We sell things in the hope that people will buy, we say and write things (like this for example) in the hope that someone would “like”, “retweet” or “share” our opinions.

So, no the internet isn't to blame but it has drawn a magnifying glass to these not-so microscopic battles in honest communication, that have been going on since the dawn of time (seems legit!) The internet has laid emphasis on our desires so much so that it is just easier to blame for the people we have become.

We want to be successful, we want to feel like we’re living for something, we want to be the centre of attention, we yearn to be looked up to, we want to be superheroes! We aspire because we want validation! We want to feel like we’re worth something! Like our opinions matter to someone, somewhere! We do! Our need to have our existence authenticated is our gift as much as it is our curse. It pushes some to be better people, but it also clouds the judgement of others and creates some of the monsters we have in lurking in our society today...  

I’m writing this in the hope that someone agrees. PLEASE AUTHENTICATE MY EXISTENCE!!!

If you don't build your dreams, someone will hire you to help build theirs...

Curtesy of richerthanyourboss.com

I was at dinner two nights ago with two of my very dear friends. Now, when we get together we're always guaranteed to have some insightful, inspiring conversations about love, life and our careers - are we happy? Are we satisfied? What would we be doing now, if we didn't have to do what we were currently doing? *and breathe*

Naturally, having not seen these lovely ladies for quite some time now, we went around the table catching everyone up on our recent accomplishments, if any, and disappointments, if any. When it got round to my turn, I wasn't sure what I had accomplished in the time that we hadn't seen. This always happens. It happens every time I visit the motherland at Christmas, it happens every time I bump into someone from school whom I have had the pleasure of not seeing for a generous amount of time, or just general 'by the way' acquaintances who pop up from time to time: "so what's new? What have you been up to since we last saw, X amount of time ago?" I'm not sure if it's because saying it so often makes it lose it's spark or if there just generally wasn't any spark in my activities to begin with, but when I fill these people in on my accomplishments, I often feel let down by them. They never make me feel that way, in fact I talk such a good game I'm sure they feel like I'm showing off, but in reality, I'm just trying to make myself believe it.

Somewhere in our long catch-up, still talking about our career paths, where we were and really where we wanted to be, we all unanimously agreed that we just didn't want to feel like we were working. In an ideal world, we all wanted to be doing things that we absolutely love, because then, even at it's most challenging, it doesn't feel like a job. We had all these hopes and ideas that we were sharing, getting so excited about, promising to begin working on, but then I thought to myself, it almost always ends here, at the table, in that restaurant, never quite becoming anything. There is this quote I seem to have come across a lot in the last few months, and I think it is a sign about my current situation - of sorts: "if you don't build your dreams, someone will hire you to help build theirs..." For some reason, this scares me, because I think it's currently happening. Even though, that's not necessarily true. Is it possible to simultaneously build your dreams and help build someone else's? Because that's where I think I stand. Naturally, you are more inclined to put more effort into your own interests and not someone else's.

I once wrote a guest blog for a series called 30 Days, 30 Voices, and the title was, What's Your Excuse? and in that post, I talked about my decision to quit my job in Leicester, move to London and work on what makes me happy . I keep going back to that post just to remind myself of what I wanted to achieve when I wrote it, when I made the decision to switch things up. Have I achieved them? No... Am I on the right track... I suppose so. I have had a long and often losing battle with procrastination and laziness for a long time but for some reason I am kicking the habit successfully these days and I do think a small fraction of that is thanks to that quote. A not-so-subtle reminder that faffing about is going to lead me to an unhappy life. Every time I hear or read about someone else's achievements, it's a  reminder that I am not yet where I want to be, they've done it - they're doing it - so why can't I? I battle disappointment constantly, because I feel like I'm not doing enough. But I have promised myself that I will spend more time learning, working and building my own dreams than I will helping to build someone else's... Although the slight awkwardness of that statement is the glaring fact that I kinda, sorta, need this job to learn, to earn and to build so I will not lose sight of what I am building, because it is not a waste of time, it is teaching me so much... The key is not to get so caught up in the routine that you lose sight of the ultimate goal... Getting up, Getting out and Getting yours!

I've been putting my ideas and goals down in a book and, armed with optimism, improved time management skills, and talents that are ever growing  I'm very much on my way to getting to the halfway point. So hopefully I don't bump into anyone for a while, while I build the empire, and then, when I finally get to a point that I can say with confidence, "this is what I'm up to... this is what I've achieved so far and this is where I'm headed..." I bump into them all and inspire someone else to get up and go get theirs!

In the infamous words of Outkast: "you've gotta git up, git out, and git somethin'/don't let the days of your life pass by..."

The case for my "erratic" behaviour.

My report cards were always a colourful tale of the frustration, optimism, annoyance and happiness I caused my teachers. They couldn't quite decide what or who I was so it was an array of, quite frankly, a whole lotta stuff.

If there was one thing I was consistent at in my young life, it was the guarantee of a wide spectrum of adjectives used to describe me, my academic performance and general social ineptitude. Words such as erratic were thrown around so much that my father once considered taking me to a child psychologist (Nigerian parents do not believe in therapy so this was a great concern for me...).

I'm not sure what exactly it was about me that screamed, "unable to concentrate", "not applying" myself, stubborn. but those words haunted me far less than "erratic." I remember the first time it was used. My parents, as usual, ignored all the praise and the good grades and zeroed in on it... There it was, a word used to define my entire being, my existence so bluntly reduced to one adjective- erratic. They looked up at me in amazement. At the time I didn't know what erratic meant, (for a split second I thought it was erotic, which seemed logical to me because i thought my media teacher was an old lesbian anyway...) But no, erratic; unsteady, irregular, unstable. My teacher thought I was unstable. Do you know what it means for a parent to read that the person whom they have entrusted with the care of their child, a thousand miles from home, thinks that that child is, essentially, insane? What a cow!

My parents did what any normal (I think?) parents would, they sat me down and asked me if I was crazy? To which I replied, "I'm not sure... Define crazy." Then we sat in silence. How do you qualify crazy? What is crazy and what is normal? I mean I thought I was fine. Sure I had my quirks about me, but don't we all?

I will be the first to admit that most classes were spent either writing rap lyrics in my "rap book", dreaming up scenarios that were probably unusual, or just generally not being present in mind (and whenever I could get away with it, in body as well). But what part of that was deemed erratic? I mean I suppose my fashion sense was questionable at best and maybe I could have been a little less creepy in my dealings with fellow students in and out of class but I don't think that makes me irregular. She never asked questions that I particularly wanted to answer (she never asked me anyway) so I wasn't irregular there. I think she was just being spiteful.

Someone else described me as erratic recently... And this time, armed with a working knowledge of what the word means, I was completely offended. "What? Why?" I protested. "You're just... weird..." Now what really annoys me about this situation is that I then analyse my life and realise that for a weirdo I'm pretty below average in my day to day dealings. Fair enough, I make for some very awkward encounters like the one with the penis bashing on the tube... But that was just an unfortunate event... I have been cast in many a series of unfortunate events to be honest but weird I am not. Predictably unpredictable or unpredictably predictable is the question I ask.

I asked my teacher when I was leaving school exactly what she meant by erratic. She said, "Sonia. You're an interesting little girl. You would sit there, with a smile on your face, completely zoned out. Other times you would be walking to the shops with your head down at the speed of a dodgy burglar who knows that the police are in sight. You could go hours without saying a word to anyone, you'd just sit where you are and daydream. You never were able to snap back into the groove of the class once you were gone. Even though you ended up performing very well, it was an unpredictable journey leading up to it because I never quite knew when you were with us and when you weren't..."

Well... I could have done with just one example...

I went to my photography teacher, Mr Hopkins, the best teacher I ever had. And I asked him if he felt the same... He said, "It's hard to say, with this class you worked very much independently of me. However, I wouldn't say you were erratic, no. Just a little... quirky."

To be perfectly honest, I can tell you that we were all a bit erratic. I hated school, I hated being cooked up in a class learning about the symbiotic relationships of things, or the meaning of opportunity cost or anyone trying to make me like Emma (the book). I had little interest in very many things and unfortunately I wasn't very good at feigning interest so I can see how that came across. However, I have no explanation for the way I walked or the reasons that I smiled whilst lost in my thoughts...  I can see how that looks... you know... odd.

The one with the mug... (with gifs!)

In life, certain things hold sentimental value to us. Some things do not require an explanation while some others do. 

One of such things for me is my mug. Now, much like Ross' sandwich in that one episode in Season 5 of Friends, this mug is more significant than people care to understand. This mug is important because it represents many things to me: it will always remind me of my debut in the corporate world, for soon after graduation I began work as a PR Coordinator in Leicester. It was given to me as a bold symbol of inclusion, I became a significant member of a team. Although I hated the job it reminds me of one success- my first real job.

As such, I hold this mug very close to my heart. As I started my job in London this mug followed me. It sat at my desk when it wasn’t in use, clean, white and pure. When I got a bit more trusting and comfortable with the new work folk, I let it sit in the cupboard fully aware that everyone would respect it.

Everyone did. Until one day... Someone, did not! 

Let me just point out here, that my mug is not just any old mug. It is my mug; it has my avatar on it, a cartoon version of myself and a darn pretty avatar, she is. And just in case that isn’t enough to convince people that it is my mug, it also has my name, written in bold letters on the other side of it! Right there in a gorgeous font.

So this temp, who is covering for my boss’ executive assistant started working with us two weeks ago. In that time, she had been introduced to us all, all nine of us. Not that many names to remember. So we introduce ourselves, help her remember our names, etc.

Last week, having searched and searched for my mug for two whole days, drinking coffee out of a stranger’s mug and fearing the worst had happened to my beloved souvenir, I was alerted to my mug on the desk where the temp resides... 

Could she have mistaken the black, female cartoon character on the mug for any of the Caucasian people who worked there? Could she have assumed that the name on the mug was code for –communal? I pondered... I didn’t know how to go about reclaiming my mug, and really didn’t want to flip out a la Ross because we all know how that went...

So I sat there, zen on the outside... 

but  inside....

I waited for the perfect opportunity to take back what was rightfully mine, what I had literally worked hard (-ish) to earn but no such opportunity arose. With each passing day, my mug was a prisoner to this woman, unwashed (yes, unwashed yet refilled everyday with more coffee, the horror!). I was overwhelmed, muttering curses under my breath and blowing them in her direction.

Finally, there was a breakthrough. On Friday evening, she was the first to leave the office. My mug, sitting there with coffee still in it (which would have been abandoned all weekend and returned to the following Monday...) I swooped in and grabbed it, took it straight to the sink and bleached the living day light out of it. I scrubbed and scrubbed until it was white as snow again. At long last, following a week of torment, my mug was back in my possession and I was able to be calm again.

It is back on my desk until I can trust again...

Moral of the story? THOU SHALT NOT USE THY NEIGHBOUR'S MUG!!!