I’ve had my fair share of crippling fear of social situations, growing up in one of the most exuberant areas of London where you relied on the flamboyance and originality of your after school activities and the obscurity of your lunch boxes, of course as kids we did not care, we fought for a reality that was separate from our yummiest mummies and our perfectly balanced work-life dads, we fought not to be trophies. However much I did not want a trophy, I had to be the best to get a trophy so I did not embarrass myself and have that day be labelled as the day she did not wow the judges at the cello competition.
Regardless of my kale stuffed childhood I gained a normal to kooky group of friends, the kind of people that would not frown at an art piece where a man stares at a garden pea on a table for ten minutes then walks away, but discuss the pea: what did the pea mean? Was the pea a metaphor for fear, or maybe the entire human existence? What was the man’s relationship with the pea? But would not be ashamed to go to a club with girls that use enough hairspray to annihilate all the mozzies in Malaysia and still dance to the cheesy manufactured pop music.
Then again, wouldn’t it feel awkward to die with them all around me, their googly eyes making paths up me, snapping away with their mind cameras taking note of the day I died, how I died, the patten of my hospital gown, how my eyes looked like they’d been in a drier, the polystyrene cup half filled with not quite cold water. I want to die alone, so I can make my own mind up about what I want to think about.