You'd Look Better as a Ghost

by Joanna Wallace

If I wanted to surround myself with needy, self-pitying morons wittering on about their feelings, I’d join Facebook.

A society that allows us to destroy our pets as soon as they start shitting indoors but demands that humans be kept alive at any cost. A society that pretends to care about dignity and quality of life but no longer understands the meaning of either.

Utterly spellbound, I’m beginning to realize I’ve never given grief the respect it deserves. Drawing no distinction between strong, weak, rich or poor, it plows through everyone’s lives the same, leaving identical mounds of emotional debris behind.

How can I feel pity for a goldfish flipping desperately across my living room rug, yet nothing but irritation for the man I’m drowning?

They see the kilt, wellies and tears and their minds reliably fill in the gaps. Because that’s what minds do—forever telling us stories we feel compelled to believe.

“The funny thing is . . .” I stop listening. When ordinary people feel the need to announce how funny a thing is, the only thing you can be sure of is that the thing will not be funny at all.

If life was a film, we’d all sit chastised at this point, guiltily regretting all those cruel misconceptions about Jemma. But life isn’t a film and in the real world people listen carefully to rhetoric but are rarely persuaded to change their minds.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a serial killer.” Returning the smile, I get in the car and wonder how many serial killers in the history of serial killing have used that line. I might try it.

“Is it possible that a person can present an image to the world that is so completely at odds with who they truly are?” Yep.

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