Cassandra in Reverse

by Holly Smale

We’re going to get one local Norfolk hit and the seventy-six-year-old presenter will mistakenly tell everyone the moisturizer contains actual shark and we’ll get a tirade of hate mail from animal activists and horrified children.

Do they use incorrect grammar? I don’t do that—I’m not a monster—but I might abbreviate slightly to match.

I simply do not have the core strength for this kind of nonsense.

Honestly, the only thing that ruins it is the fact that there are other humans in here, enjoying it all too.

Maybe I’ve been told I’m overthinking it so often, by so many people, I’ve convinced myself it’s all I’m capable of. But what if they’re wrong? What if I’m thinking it exactly the right amount? What if everyone else is simply underthinking it, continuously, and the deficit is actually theirs?

“I don’t like relating publicly. I don’t even like relating privately, most of the time. Ideally, I’d be paid money to sit in a dimly lit room, reading and talking to nobody. Apart from maybe on the rare occasion

where I’m wheeled out to talk at someone about something I’m interested in, and everybody is forced to listen but not allowed to respond.”

energetically debate the difference between a “walk,” a “hike” and a “trek” and exactly what it is we think we’re doing.

And I suddenly realize that my life no longer feels paper-plate disposable; I can’t just throw it away or undo it. I don’t want to discard it because it’s not perfect, or because there are flaws in my tapestry. It’s not quite there yet—there’s still a long way to go—but I want my life to eventually become ceramic: one I can wash and keep, even when it chips. A life I can use every day; one I smile at because it makes me happy, like a picture of a cute hedgehog.