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.

Grief makes ordinary people infinitely more interesting,

A circle of chairs had been positioned in the middle of the hall and we all chose one to sit on. Those first few moments were awkward, with obligatory smiles boomeranging around the group, but then everyone got their phones out and stared down at the screens and we all pretended we weren’t sitting in a circle of strangers.

Florence looks like one of those inconsequential characters I see creeping around on the periphery of life—doing good deeds and saving for a rainy day.

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.

Whenever I’m unsure of how I’m expected to respond, I use a cliché. Even if I’m not sure what it means, even if I use it incorrectly, no one ever seems to mind.

their minds reliably fill in the gaps. Because that’s what minds do—forever telling us stories we feel compelled to believe.

and reaches the pinnacle of any decent crying journey—the part where sharp, staccato breaths override a person’s ability to listen, to reason or to speak.

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.

she’s also an expert in something called mindfulness. I’m not sure what this is but it seems to involve Star closing her eyes and thinking carefully before uttering each and every word. I’m not disputing any of her credentials but, to me, Star looks like someone out-of-her-bloody-mind-fulness.

Is she one of those nutty types? Or is she just lost?

I always picture myself in the shadows of life, silently observing ordinary people and their ridiculous ways. Today has reminded me I’m not invisible, they see me too.

The image repulses me. It’s never OK for a grown woman to wear a headband.

They’re so fucked-up, ordinary people—so busy posting opinions and selfies, what about the protection of their weak?

“I am aware that every member of this group has their own unique journey of grief; one person’s experience should not overwhelm or diminish another’s.” There follows a long-winded masterclass on how to overthink things that aren’t worth thinking about, during which I count the words “boundaries,” “respect” and “closure.” Within seconds I’ve reached double digits and stop listening.

But life isn’t a film and in the real world people listen carefully to rhetoric but are rarely persuaded to change their minds.

Why are ordinary people so revoltingly needy? Life is so easy for them, yet still they find reason to complain. No wonder I’m constantly disgusted. How do they think I cope? All I want is to be left alone in the shadows. Not sitting here, with people looking at me, demanding answers.

Stillness and silence. The most underrated weapons in any given armory. People will do anything to avoid the discomfort created by stillness and silence.

ordinary people have always enjoyed projecting phony images of themselves into the world. It’s one of the few quirks that makes them interesting.

I’ve always been fascinated by this particular aspect of human nature—the insatiable need to be envied and admired. Every day, millions of ordinary people become locked in a relentless battle to accumulate “likes” on social media, never stopping long enough to question whether they still like the person they’re pretending to be. We have evolved to the point where the truth is no longer an inconvenience, it’s irrelevant.

“Today is my sixtieth birthday.” I let go of the breath and any last hope that Will may be remotely interesting. As predictable birthday platitude after predictable birthday platitude is directed his way, I wonder what it is about ordinary people and their need to declare birthdays. Who cares? Who honestly cares that on this day sixty years ago Will squirmed into the world? It’s of no consequence to me, it’s of no consequence to anyone in this room, but look at them all. Smiling and wishing him many happy returns, pretending they care. It’s repulsive. If any of them genuinely cared, they’d stop wishing him happy birthday and tell him what needs to be said. At sixty years old, the time has definitely arrived to get rid of that earring and goatee.

“I think Will has his heart set on a coffee, don’t you, Will?” says Christiana, directing possibly the most pitiful sentence in the history of pitiful conversations to possibly the most pitiful participant. Will’s sense of failure is putting on one hell of a show.

I’ve never understood why ordinary people feel the need to be so incredibly unkind.

I pretend to take a sip from my glass and watch as alcohol loosens the shackles of ordinariness.

No one notices that I’m tipping my drinks into the plant pot on the windowsill. Drunks aren’t known for their observational skills.

What the hell are they talking about? Is this how ordinary people communicate now? Quoting chapters from a book?

I notice the intensity in Ben’s eyes and wonder whether I’m wrong. Maybe he doesn’t want to reassure Miranda about her father. Maybe he wants to tell her that she still looks pretty and young. But he can’t. Ordinary person convention is quite clear on this point. A man cannot comfort an upset woman if the upset woman’s husband is in close proximity to the aforementioned upset woman. Even in this messed-up version of real life where half the people in the room don’t know what planet they’re on, ordinary person convention prevails.

When ordinary people unplug themselves from the grid of inauthenticity and speak honestly, they almost become endearing.

With that she blows her nose into the tissue and studies the contents. She really is the most repulsive specimen of ordinariness it has ever been my misfortune to observe.

There follows the inevitable awkward silence sandwich: awkward silence followed by the awkward clash of voices as two or more people start to speak at the same time followed by more awkward silence.

A jogger runs past me, breathing heavily, moving fast. The rain must be blinding him. His top has a logo on the back and the words, “Just Do It.” Is that what he thought when he laced up his running shoes and looked outside at the weather? Is that what he thinks before doing anything? He must be irritating to live with.

Anyone who wears that much foundation must have something to hide.

Why has it only just occurred to me that the Michelin-starred sous-chef might be a woman?

Another fascinating question to add to my list of fascinating questions to ponder.

“Maybe,” I say, wondering how many times I can use the word before she notices.