superlatively rude

because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Permission

superlatively rude
“I mean… wouldn’t it be cool to just hang out with everyone? Like, all at once?” one of us said.
The other replied: “What, like a Twitter-Meet?”
“Yeah,” one of us continued, “But like… not in a pub, and not shit.”
The other one said: “But also, not some wanky media thing where it’s all about who you know and how many followers you’ve got, and wearing a name badge.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah!”

*

What I reckon is more true than any other truism, is that you’ve got to give yourself permission. That’s how this happened. We decided, sod it. We’ll build our own opportunities. Because you can want something, know you’re worthy of it – that you’d excel at it – but nobody will ever come and tap you on the shoulder to tell you it’s your turn. That actually, yes, you'd be really good at hosting a panel discussion at a women's event. That they've been waiting for you. 

One of my favourite quotes is the one about having the confidence of a mediocre white man. It can be so hard to do, to say “I deserve this”. “I can do this”. “I am allowed to want this”. I like that there's power in numbers. That doing it with a mate makes you braver. More like that bloke who doesn't worry about what other people think.
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Vulnerable, Dating, and Mean: A Memoir

superlatively rude

“You’re being a snob!” she exclaimed to me - genuinely flummoxed, I suddenly understood. “You’re really telling me that any man without a university degree isn’t in the running to date you? That’s horrible.”

I hadn’t meant it horribly, but then maybe that makes it worse. I didn’t give my long list of criteria a second thought, because some stuff is just obvious, isn’t it? Education: preferably an M.A. Career prospects: makes more money than me. Relationship with mother: calls every Sunday. Without realising it my list also included the ability to dress well without supervision, lives preferably alone, capable of sitting through a four-course meal, would get on with my cousin Paul at a family wedding, speaks a second language if not two, understands wine, will give me the password to his Netflix account.

Is it any wonder my one eludes me when THE MAN WHO FITS THAT LIST DOES NOT EXIST. The person who fits that list does not exist. I DO NOT FIT THAT LIST.

My friend, the one who was taking me to task, she said, “I don’t have a university degree. Does that mean I’m not good enough to be your friend?” and suddenly I was two inches tall and blushing fiercely, as well I should. Because. Well – because when it comes to dating, when it comes to judging people full stop, I’ve been a dick. 
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Not really about her

Like Amy Schumer said, we used to have Khloé. Khloé knew who she was, which is to say – Khloé was the one with the most rounded personality. In a family famous for being famous, she wasn’t the “beautiful” one. Kim was the stunning Playboy pin-up. Kourtney was the petite and natural girl-next-door. Khloé had something the other two didn’t: she had balls. She was funny. Where her sisters made headlines for what they wore or what they did, Khloé seemed to get press for what she said. I liked that. I could write a book on the value I think the Kardashians have for their marketing-savvy, matriarchal, female-positive and only-deal-in-kind-words way, but my starring role would’ve gone to Khloé. She made me feel good about myself.

I’ve never been the hot one either, y’see. I’m not the girl you approach at the bar, the one in the bandeau dress with the waist-length hair. I was at a dinner party recently – Thanksgiving, actually. It was thirty strangers brought together by an American friend visiting London, and was the kind of dinner with an impressive postcode and hired staff on hand to make sure the wine glasses are forever full. Every woman in that dining room approached me over the course of the evening to tell me that my outfit was on point – and it was. I felt like the best version of myself, with a red lip and curled hair, a white button-up shirt and the nipped in waist of a quilted cream prom skirt. I wore my new vintage dress coat, too, so looked vaguely equestrian and incredibly put together. I made new friends, supping wine on the balcony and sharing cigarettes. I was interested and interesting, asking questions and telling jokes. I had a genuinely lovely time. I felt like the kind of guest one should strive to be at somebody else’s dinner. 
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#breakfree (from fear)

superlatively rude

"Do you do stand-up, then?" she said, testing lighting and angles and other things I won't pretend to understand. It’s about the best compliment she could’ve given, really, since I’ve harboured longings on giving it a go since about 2007. It made me warm to her immediately. I thought, thank goodness SOMEBODY has spotted my immense and undeniable talent for being spontaneously hilarious.*

(*My immense and undeniable talent for “The Laura Show” when confronted with more than one set of eyeballs.)

She asked me to smile, and tilt my chin, and contort my shoulder, and I knew then she’d been overly complimentary so that I was putty in her hands, and as such would do whatever she told me to. Move my back like this? Swerve my hip like that? WHATEVER YOU NEED, PHOTOGRAPHER LADY WHO HAS COMPLIMENTED ME SO! Whatever. You. Want.

The Tweet had fluttered towards me only the week before. “Laura,” the features director of the national magazine had crammed into 140 characters. “Can you follow me so I can DM you? V. important!”

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