Have you heard about Man Repeller? Me neither. Nah, just kidding. It’s a pretty cool blog/website thing, that has those monthly writing prompts. I didn’t know that until today. I saw one for the month of August entitled, “Imagine a Day of Not Giving a Fuck”. I felt that this spoke to me, so I decided to give it a try. You can send your scribbles to MR and risk getting published if the editor decides your story is the best. I may or may not do it. Probably not.
But anyway, without further ado – let’s step into a plane-of-existence-travelling machine and jump into a world where fucks went extinct. For a day.
A Day of Not Giving a Fuck
Every day starts with a morning, and as I am a hardcore sleeper who usually doesn’t wake up unless woken up by external factors (or my bladder), I am tempted to say that I’d sleep in as hard as I can, but at the same time, I think I’d rather end up getting up at a reasonable time. After all, there’s a whole exciting day of not giving a fuck ahead of me! Better take advantage.
I’d throw my best, prettiest dress on – maybe the one hiding in the deepest corner of my closet that I’ve stashed away until I get rid of that slightly squishy tummy of mine. I’m going to put on that pretty dress and I’m not going to care whether my legs are shaven or not. And I’m going to wear heels with that, why not? When my feet get tired, I’ll just take the heels off and walk barefoot like the urban nymph that I am, because who cares. I’ll put on my reddest, boldest lipstick that I normally feel awkward wearing – like, does it match my pale skin? Doesn’t it make my face look even worse when it turns red, which happens very often? Don’t I look too posh? Do I stand out too much, do I look like I’m trying too hard? Well, today I’m not giving a fuck about any of this. So my lips are going to be friggin’ red. Red as the blood of my enemies.
I’d Uber everywhere, because if I’m not giving a fuck, then I might as well not give a fuck about money, either (and possibly end up blowing through all of it in one day, but, again – who cares!). First, I’d make my way to the best, fanciest brunch restaurant in town and have some decadent, sweet brunch, maybe pancakes, or croissants with jam and coffee. Doesn’t sound too crazy, but bear with me. Normally I don’t do that, because those restaurants are either in downtown, which is a pain to drive to, or they’re expensive. Also the food itself is kind of YOLO for me, as my delicate tummy suffers when I eat dairy, wheat, and other tasty awesome things, so I’m normally gluten- and dairy-free, and those restaurants aren’t. So I’ll most likely end up bloated after that breakfast, but who gives a fuck.
Then I’d go to a grocery store and buy their best champagne, their most expensive and sweetest wine, and a dozen tubs of ice cream. Not only the regular kind – I’ll throw in some dairy-free ones, because some of them are actually really delicious. This way I’m not going to be that exploding zombie from video games, because as much as it’s a no-fucks-given day, the side effects from eating my forbidden foods can go beyond gassy and into the land of Pain, so let’s not spoil the rest of this wonderful day. Either way, my menu for the rest of the day consists entirely of ice cream. I’m no cookie monster, but I’m definitely the monster that haunts baby ice cream pints in their nightmares.
After dropping off my loot at home, I’d go shopping and buy a prettier, fancier, nicer dress – the kind that I never buy or wear, because, again, I’d look inadequate; there’s just no occasion for me to wear something this nice and fashionable, and there are probably only 10 people in this damn city who even appreciate fashion. I’d immediately put it on, looking like straight from the runway or a fashion blog, and go back home to eat my ice cream and watch movies or shows on Netflix or Hulu while sipping on champagne and the sweet, sweet wine.
Now, I’m having a hard time thinking of what I’d do next; I guess it depends on what I’m feeling like on that day. Maybe I’d go to a fancy club, find one with the music I’d enjoy, and just let myself let loose, forget about the fact that I dance like a middle-aged lady who calls these places a “discotheque”, and when guys approach me and offer to buy me a drink, I’d tell them straight up without worrying that what I say sounds just odd and confusing, that sure, they can, but I’m married and not looking for an adventure (and the reason my husband wouldn’t be there with me is because he hates those places, so I’m alone, but I don’t give a fuck). So if one of those dudes inevitably approaches me, I’d tell him that we can have a drink and a chat, we can even comment on other chicks and their asses or whichever part of the body you’re the most into, we can dance together like two friends without any benefits whatsoever. Some of them will back off, thinking I’m crazy; others will back off, thinking I’m a bitch; a few would stick around thinking I’m just playing hard to get and that’s fine – I already set the boundaries, so if they try groping, I’d just slap them – always wanted to do that! Normally in that situation I’d be too polite to give them what they deserve, I think. I’d just run away. But since we’re not giving a fuck, I’ll give them a full facial treatment. Yeah.
I may not feel like clubbing, however. I may feel like going to all these places that I’ve never been, but always wanted to. If I’m feeling romantic, I’d grab my husband and jump on a plane to New York to find one of these high-rise restaurants where you can see the whole Big Apple, or better yet – a five star hotel. Now, this is definitely the no-fucks-given-about-going-broke part, because a quick getaway to another city isn’t that crazy in itself. I could definitely afford it, it’s just that the next day I may have to beg for food. Anyway, we’d get a super awesome hotel, order room service (give me your best ice cream, I say!), cuddle and do other things that grown-ups do in bed, and not give a fuck (hehe) about the noise.
*sirens sound* This concludes the annual day of not giving a fuck.
Now that I read through it, it sounds quite mundane. I feel like it should be crazier, so, uh, here it is: I’d get a tattoo. One of those pretty colorful watercolor-looking flowers, because that’s what I like the most as of now. In real life, what’s stopping me from getting a tattoo is the fact that it may cause issues due to other people’s narrowheadedness and because I know myself… and I know that I may stop liking my tattoo pretty quickly. I can’t know for sure, of course, but for me this kind of thing is like jewelry, and I can’t bear to wear the same jewelry every day. But on that day, I wouldn’t give a fuck about my inhibitions, and I’d get that tattoo, just to see whether I was right.
The next day I’d wake up with farts and shits from the food, no money in my bank account from all the spending, arm red and inflamed from the tattoo, and possibly hungover from the alcohol. So – it’s nice to dream, but in the end, maybe what makes these things seem so awesome is exactly because we can’t have them. Not all at once. Actually, I just inspired myself because I realized how doable all of this sounds. Hey, food for thought. Maybe this will be an actual day from my life, some time in the future.