I love pretending to be really, really busy…which is wholly ironic since the majority of my lifestyle is based on not doing work, not giving a shit, and being hungover. But, be it walking around campus pretending to be texting, pretending to not have to pretend to be texting since I’m too busy to give anyone my time, the ubiquitous red “busy” gchat status, never answering a call on the first attempt, or furiously typing on a computer musing the performance of doing something productive, I do everything possible to make it appear that I am really fucking important and completely strapped for time.
In actuality, 9 times out of 10, I actually am busy…doing dumb shit. In between the two hours I spend on Pinterest, the 7 hours I spend on twitter, and the couple seconds I glance at facebook, I don’t have time to do homework, respond to emails, or call my mom back. The trick is to do all of these things with a look of feigned concentration and furrowed brows like your seconds away from discovering a cure for cancer. That way, people will think you’re really busy and not approach you. If they do, well, give them a look of disgust like they fucking just crop dusted you with liquid aids and told you they believe in waiting until marriage.
Alas, inbetween the time I spend deciding what (not) to eat, what to wear, and who to ignore, I end each work day utterly exhausted. So, of course I have to ask myself, why the fuck do I spend most of my time thinking of ways to appear to busy instead of just interacting with the world? Because being a girl who isn’t busy is available, and a girl who is available is desperate, and being desperate is the basically the unbetchiest thing next to a non-diet supermarket generic soda.
Being a girl by nature, there is some amount of desperation woven into our genome. We are desperate to have bitchin weekend plans, desperate to find a sugar daddy, desperate to get by while doing the least amount of work possible, desperate to go to the bar without paying a red cent, and eventually, desperate to get wifed up and sadly, procreate and ruin our skinny ass bodies (were fucking masochists). While girls may harbor these feelings, true betches know that wearing your heart on your sleeve is just as smart as wearing your heart on your sleeve…it fucking isn’t. I’ve learned in the few instances that my deep seeded feelings of need for attention and acceptance rise to the surface, its better to beat them back down with a good dose of the “I don’t fucking cares.” Don’t have weekend plans? Who cares, I was planning on shopping and going to yoga all weekend anyway. Single again this year? Whatever, my dad gave me his credit and I’m going to hook up with townies and degenerates all weekend long… then sob about it. Constantly pretending to be busy is the highest, and most effective pedestal a betch can place herself on – no one knows what the hell you’re up to, but everyone wants to be doing it too.
Even after that very introspective look at my psyche, maybe it simply boils down to the fact I’m awkward as fuck and don’t like to communicate to anyone without a cell phone in my hand or not behind the glare of a computer screen. But speaking of being busy…looks like I’ve been neglecting my Farmville farm for the last 3 years so it’s probably time I get back to that.