Here’s today’s lesson on why you have to be careful when reading headlines on the internet. I know a lot of people who read only the headline, then go ahead and share the article or (worse) comment on it on Twitter.
Let me explain what “My Life Is Perfect Hell” means. It means I am living in a hell created by having a life that is perfect. I know, I know, I’ll cry you a river after broiling my tuna steak for lunch.
This past weekend, I got my new office. I was going for Meryl Streep’s office from The Devil Wears Prada, and while I have about six years and $40,000 to go before it comes even close to her office, my office upgrade didn’t cost anything and it’s already way better than it was before (mostly because I moved all the furniture and managed to vacuum up a lot of dead bugs that had been there for ages).
Now, however, my charging station is across the room, so when my phone dies I have to plug it in way over there (that guy who wrote Angela’s Ashes is already penning a book about my tragedy.) Now when my husband and my oldest tax deduction text me, I have to stop what I’m doing, get up, walk over there, and read it while it’s still plugged in.
It’s rough. No one knows my darkness. Well, okay, YOU do, but only because I just told you about it. And I kind of get the impression that you’re judging me for it.
I don’t blame you.
Of COURSE you should judge me for bitching about this! I’m a horrible person! I don’t care, but I do admit that I’m horrible. Yes, I’m complaining about a new office, a husband who texts just to see what I’m doing, and a teenaged offspring who still speaks to me. I said my life was perfect, didn’t I?
The problem with having Perfect Life Syndrome (or first world problems, as the memes keep calling it) is that you feel like a total shit for complaining about it… and you should. Your problems are nothing compared to those of even the guy sitting next to you, let alone some mom in a mountaintop village where yak milk is the only source of liquid that didn’t have to be hauled up a hillside.
Sadly, that doesn’t stop people from complaining about their perfect life hell, mostly on Facebook where they moan that their souffle didn’t rise high enough even though they had nothing else to do all day except cook that damn thing while tiptoeing so they didn’t disturb it.
So be grateful, souffle flunkies, and just stick your head in that bowl and lick it the way God intended. While being happy about the hell that is your life, of course.