I Believed I was Culturally Indestructible

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6am: Alarm goes off. I reach for the radio with bleary eyes and flailing limbs to passively digest the morning headlines.

6.15am: With a bra strung around my neck and a mascara brush rammed between my fingers, the radio goes off and a podcast goes on, while I attempt to curate my thrown-together, “really, this old thing?!” look for the day.

6.30am: Whilst feeding the dog, I open my emails for the first of a hundred times that day. In they flood. Brands, bloggers, eBay, “the five cutest pictures of llamas you’ll see all week”. You name it, it’ll be in my inbox.

7am: Making my sandwich, I flick open the nearest copy of Vogue on one side of the chopping board, with laptop open on top of the toaster (yes, mother, I know it’s a fire hazard, but it also creates the optimum height for “surfing the web”, as you say, and allows me to save dozens of vital blog posts to read on the commute).

My eyes haven’t even decrusted from sleep, and yet I appear to have crammed in as much content to my brain as a single human can digest. My heart races, throat in mouth. There’s still so much I need to do.

I haven’t scrolled Instagram – that’s the job for the walk to the station. I haven’t downloaded the new podcasts for the morning, which will be sure to send my little old iPhone into system failure with its already chronically low storage space. And I haven’t yet opened or analysed with several shades of highlighter the three books I’ve crammed into my tiny, looks-over-function backpack. If there was a Reading-An-Immensely-Heavy-Hardback-Whilst-You-Walk-At-An-Above-Average-Pace world championships, I’d have three golds and a condo in the Hamptons.

I convinced myself that I could subscribe to 25 podcasts, 3 magazines, upwards of 50 e-newsletters, and 6 online newspaper paywalls and all the while remain sane. And that’s not even including the 48 “favourites” items on my web browser, which is primarily made up of blogs I feel dutifully bound to check in on every morning, and the constant flurry of new musical releases from every genre imaginable that I feel compelled to know inside out a matter of hours after they are dropped. Oh, and I have to have well thought out views, opinions and steadfast stances on everything I have consumed or even passively noticed on a billboard before I’ve even had my morning cappuccino.

My love of culture consumption has turned into little more than a fully fledged nightmare. And honestly, I just give up on the New Yorker. Why so many words, David Remnick, why so many words.

Something’s gotta give, and someone needs to lead me in the right direction of which item on the agenda must be sacrificed like a lamb to the slaughter.

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