I’m nobody’s bitch. But my own. I’ve earned the right to this smugly cocky attitude having dealt with what life threw my way. I handled it with the poise, grace and eloquence of Grace Kelly, Mrs. Onassis and MeenaKumarion an English summer afternoon having tea on the moors, all put together.Well, at least that’s how I’d like to believe I overcame those diarrhea ridden circumstances. Looking back, I may in reality have been more Thomas Hobbish and rather, nasty, brutish and bat shit crazy during those times. Point I’m trying to make here is that I’ve earned the right to be a cross between Hobbes and Kumari and can do whatever the fuck I want, in whatever fashion and at a time of my choosing. So, when humans ask me for explanations, I feel I owe them one approaching a proximity ofnone. Thusly, I indulge them in a penetrative stare until it gets awkward. For them, never me.
Back in my studio apartment, I quietly went back to adjusting my noose. Checking its structural integrity and the wobbliness of the wooden stool I was to kick. Sadly, Walmart doesn’t make wobbly stools. What a drag! I paid 17 dollars for the bloody rope at Home Depot. FYI, when shopping for a noose at your local hardware store don’t ask if the rope will hold your weight and then don’t proceed to give the numerical figure of your weight. The lady’s response to my query was somewhat along the lines of, “yeah,…you might wanna consider a crane” as she pursed her lips tightly.
A rather unpleasant look for her, if you ask me. But fuck if I care, I was gonna hang myself or so you guys thought. Read on…
Recently I decided to go on a self imposed sabbatical from social media. Because I realized humans were becoming dependent on my wit to get them through their prudish little mundane lives and I’ve mentioned with ample clarity that, I’m nobody’s bitch. Well,…or so I thought. I waltzed off unannounced with no mentions like, I’ll be deactivating my account for so many days. I never deactivate my ass, let alone my social media accounts. If you stumble upon it being in such a state, call the cops asap. I’m probably hanging from my shower rod. But I digress. No seriously, call the cops and I digress again. Then proceed to give me a good burial. I’m talking Prada runway Mary Janes and vintage Chanel and baraygoshtka pulao. Otherwise my tortured soul won’t enterparadise. #JannatulBalenciagaChanelFirdaus.
I only responded to emails, text messages and phone calls that my flamboyant lifestyle depended on; my work. Cuz every girl deserves some vintage Chanel, and you need dollar bills for that. As my social media corpse entered the rigor mortis stage of my demise, say about a week into my silent departure, I started receiving messages of concern on different platforms.
A week after my social media chaleeswaan my husband started getting calls regarding my well-being. He asked me to get back on twitter so people stopped thinking he had my body stuffed in a deep freezer. FYI, we don’t even own a deep freezer. Again, you didn’t need to know this and now I feel overexposed. My response was to the tune of, “I’m nobody’s bitch, I don’t need to check in with humans”
About 84percent of those were seriously crafted messages of concern with perfect punctuation and grammar. I appreciated it. The grammar, more than the message. There was no creativity to speak of in those messages. But they were nice. Note, I do not like the word ‘nice’. Nine percent of them had a threatening in your face brash vibe, kinda like myself. I did not appreciate those. You’re all fired by the way.
By now I’m in the “Chaleeswaan” stage of my Facebook/ Instagram death (for my firangi friends it is the 40th day following a person’s death). Intriguingly, around that time I got 3.1 percent of porn clips. One of you miraculously got my fetish right. You probably know my IP address. In which case, I’m appreciative of your research into my sexuality. The time it must’ve taken. So, call me maybe? P.s. Im not in the book. Keep your pants on. Moving on, 0.7 percent of you shared your personal struggles with life and how you considered suicide as a viable option. I must say, I responded to those and gave them numbers of mental health professionals. There’s always someone who can help and you need to know you are valued.
Suicide is never an option, cuz once you’ve kicked the stool, you’ll beat yourself up over missing the joy of slashed prices at the next Neiman Marcus sale even tough you might’ve made it to heaven. And then there’s your kids. Perhaps, I should’ve mentionedthe dependent offspring before I mentioned your dependency on Neiman Marcus sales. Well, we all prioritize, don’t we? Don’t answer that.
1.9 percent of you social delinquents sent me amusing tiny dick pics. At which point I mulled over how debauched the alien experiments must’ve been on you but only momentarily because I had my own deliriums to rationalize. 1.29 percent of you sent me Islamic quotes. A martini cocktail of Hadeeth and Quran quotes. For someone who doesn’t “religion” well and yes, I used it as a verb, what can I say, I’m tortured, I appreciated them. At times, I find the Quran quite soothing. There, I’ve paid God His due for the rest of the Gregorian calendar. See what I did there? Hold the applause.
Lastly one of you sent me a photo of Michael Jackson’s gold coffin draped in crimson roses. That broke me. I’m still mourning his transcendence and there were tears.
What perturbed me was that a few of you thought I was suicidal. For, why else would an otherwise happy go lucky person (my perceived reality on social media and of course perception is reality) instantaneously evaporate from the scene?For someone who indulges in the vanities of life and whose online posts continually exude effervescence, she could only exit the social scene for one reason alone: to adjust the noose that would take here away from the brutality of dismal mundane Facebook posts. Seriouslyya’ll need to quit your whining about your health issues, your dog’s anus and how you still couldn’t believe Trump wasn’t impeached yet.
A week after my social media chaleeswaan my husband started getting calls regarding my well-being. He asked me to get back on twitter so people stopped thinking he had my body stuffed in a deep freezer. Fyi, we don’t even own a deep freezer. Again, you didn’t need to know this and now I feel overexposed. My response was to the tune of, “I’m nobody’s bitch, I don’t need to check in with humans”.
By the fiftieth day, friends had moved on to other friends and there was silence. Aaah, peace at last. Or was it? Then this conversation transpired; someone very close to me, no, not my baby daddy and quite possibly my schizoid inner Chandni chimed “I miss you”.
Me: you possibly can’t. You see me everyday.
Her: I see part of you every day. Missing your online bullshit. That’s a different part of you. I mean, for fucks sake even Jesus Christ rose after the second day.
Me: Well, he didn’t tweet right after.
This got me thinking. I missed my friends too. There, I caved. I realized through your messages how loved I was. You pricksfucking need me! Alas the all-consuming feeling of being desired had driven men, mostly women, mad since eons. Somewhere in your missing my presence, I realized I loved to hate your quirks. I missed your personalities too. Deeply.
In that moment,it dawned upon me that we are codependent in this bitchdom. We are everybody’s bitches.
The author is Washington DC based Canadian of Pakistani heritage. She is currently working on a book on issues of sexuality and other things taboo amongst Muslims.
Published in Daily Times, October 12th 2017.