How to be the heroine of your own week – put everyone down and complain

Monday

Mourn the fact that everyday can’t be Bank Holiday – not because of the extra day off, no. You know that Bank Holidays exist as a reminder that for 5 days a week, you don’t have to interact with your child for an average of 7 hours a day – precious hours of outdoing other people in bourgeois coffee shops that have been lost.

Nonetheless, this is an opportunity for gratitude. Since you have to be around your child, have you tried usurping them with your superior knowledge of the alphabet? The thrill of knowing you are better than someone is halved since they are a child, but it’s a thrill nonetheless. Relish in the moment. Make them submit. Outsmart them with the fully fledged archive of your memory and historical repertoire. Insert yourself into history entirely. Held up a cardboard sign one Saturday afternoon? Hell, you were Rosa Luxemburg. Speak in historical anecdotes. Be the hero history needed, the one your child needs.  You’re doing this for the world, really. And with this slow, gradual erosion of reality, they will have a completely warped perspective of you that means if they ever meet your friends, they can back up your nonsense.

Tuesday

Why limit your one-upmanship solely to casual conversation? Why not look at pictures of celebrities on the internet attending the Met Gala, and contemplate the existential conundrum of self by asking, “do they every truly arrive”? Deep. Write that down for later. You may not have been invited but you’re immediately better than them.

Compare them to onions, oranges, or any layered or divisible fruit or vegetable. Assign yourself as a part-time philosopher – remembering to tell everyone about this newfound talent later – and wonder why nobody has ever made the comparison between the human soul and fresh produce.

Google the Met’s theme, and decide because you are not creative enough to slay the theme ‘gilded glamour’, that it is stupid, no less because it isn’t political enough. AOC took the crown in a “tax the rich” dress last year – why are they still bothering with the Met at all? Decide to buy a black turtleneck instead – you are now a philosopher, after all – and emblazon it with the same message. When asked about your new outfit, quote Mark Twain – no, not the one about the truth, that’s far too obvious, just allude to some novel but don’t give its name – and use three syllable words like “superficial” and “economic”. Inform everyone you will no longer attend a fancy dress party ever again.

Wednesday

Compare the tragic Roe v Wade situation to the UK’s fanatics. Inform anyone who will listen that whatever this is is exactly like the Tories and they shouldn’t be allowed. Somehow. To do something. Somewhere.

Thursday

Your current dog is not as calm and reserved as all your previous dogs, and other people’s dogs, and dogs in general.

Come up with the ingenious plan that no one else has thought of, of going in one at a time with your spouse to vote at the polling station – one stays outside with the dog, one goes in. Tell people about it as you walk in – and out. Write upwards of 200 words on the chaotic event.

Friday

Round up the week with political superiority. Reclaim the word ‘woke’ by using it to describe yourself seven times. Adapt it into an adjective. Imply anybody who isn’t the woke liberal left – which isn’t an insult when the woke liberal left use it to describe their own wokery – is the silent majority. But the silent majority isn’t Piers Morgan even though he says it is because nobody watched TalkTV and you checked and it isn’t because would-be viewers are taking evening classes because they’re too dumb and wouldn’t want to educate themselves in any way because if they did then they would be part of the woke liberal left too and they’re not.

Don’t forget to tell everybody about your trials and exactly how you overcame them.

Redigested from this.