Hi, Hey, Hello!

The other day (which in this case was actually a couple of weeks ago, making this one of those rare occasions where I actually mean ‘the other day’ and not some random day that was actually years ago) someone asked me for a book recommendation. Which is great and I was happy to do it because as I am sure is pretty evident by now, I read a lot of books. I have a lot of recommendations to give.

Naturally I couldn’t just give recommendations blind so I asked a couple of questions:

‘What are you looking for exactly?’

‘Nothing too frothy.’

‘Right, so no Chick Lit.’


*person 3* ‘What’s Chick Lit?’

Now I just so happened to be reading After You at the time, which in some capacity would qualify (there are degrees of Chick Lit, I did a whole two weeks of study on this in a Women Writers module in my third at uni, I have a random amount of knowledge about this) so I whipped it out of my bag as a demonstration.

And then person 3 says ‘I’m surprised by that, I thought you were all high brow…’ I then kind of just zoned out after that because I have no time for people telling me what they thought/think I should be reading.

But then it got me thinking about perceptions and shit.

More specifically people’s perception of me…which let me tell you, once you start thinking about it even for a few minutes becomes an exercise in vanity/ego on some level. So I thought about it for all of 10 minutes and then decided to write a post about it…

Perceptions are a weird thing. For one, in some ways you can be in total control of them but then in so many others you have zero control. You can portray whatever version of yourself that ideally you would want others to see and hope that they take from it what you want them to, but there are literally no guarantees that it will fly like that. In fact I feel like for the most part you can bet your bottom dollar that they won’t about 90% of the time.

For example the simple fact that I bothered to study English Literature apparently lends itself to the idea that I am basically all Hemingway and Austen and only read Shakespeare because they’re ‘proper’ plays (but let’s ignore the fact that I do actually really love Shakespeare and could wax lyrical about for daayyysss). Once you brand yourself with English Graduate there’s this weird notion that you only read classics from that point on. But like I said earlier, I did a module during my time at uni where it was literally my aim to read two Chick Lit books in a week. It prompted some of the most interesting tutorial discussions I have ever been a part of, it was understandably very divisive and that’s not to say that I wasn’t a part of that same kind of discussion when the book for the week was The Scarlet Letter because I was. And that’s kind of the point. Almost the only thing I do these days when I read a book is read it critically on some level. I can still read it for fun but I always think about it critically. That’s just all I did solidly for 3 years and will probably always continue to do. I bet you that I can sell you the merits of After You even though overall I wasn’t a fan…

A few other things that I have noticed;

I’m generally a pretty quiet person and therefore it’s expected that I’m just going to always remain quiet. Not true. If I know you and trust you in some capacity (or sometimes when I’m drunk…) then I’m actually pretty talkative.

I have been blessed with a resting bitch face which means that people assume I’m aggressive in some nature, or ya know, a bitch. And to a degree I totally am, it’s a defense mechanism, but I’m not gonna punch you in the face. So chill.

Generally speaking I’m a patient person. Very few people can say that they’ve ever seen me lose my patience or get snappy (my parents don’t count, I’ve lived with them for 21 years) and as such people tend to mistake it for weakness. And maybe it is. What I do know is that if you’ve got me to snap then it’s pretty much a goodbye from me. That’s it. You’ve pushed all my buttons and I can’t be bothered anymore.

See, ruthless = kind of a bitch. I’ve made my peace with it…

Oh, here’s one other thing that is still super annoying and somehow still follows around even though I’m in my mid-twenties, I’m tall so I must be good at sports that involve nets in high places, basically your basket and netballs. I’m not. Just because in theory I’m closer to the net does not mean that I magically now also possess co-ordination.

I play my cards close to my chest. Playing them is stressful and I don’t need anymore of that in my life. I know what that gives off, I have had multiple people tell me that they were surprised by who I actually am underneath the RBF. I tried to changing things to fall into that being ‘nice’ thing that apparently I should be but it’s tiring and there are other things that I would rather been known for than being ‘nice’ (also thank you Anna Kendrick for proving that I cannot be alone in that thought process in Scrappy Little Nobody). 

And also don’t test my ability to make even the most awful book sound like it belong on a shelf with all the classics because I’ll have you thinking that Twilight is a total literary masterpiece if you give me the chance…

Parentheses count: 4. See you tomorrow!

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One Comment

  • Tabby

    I hear you on the having a natural ‘resting bitch face’ somehow meaning you’re a grumpy person. I’ve been told to smile more at jobs, even though I do my fair share of smiling when I’m talking to a person. Even my mom says I can look like a grump or like I’m upset. I’m not, I’m just usually locked inside my own head or I’m too shy.

    Ah, the life of an introvert.

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