Project Zero F**ks

Three years ago I would have said, “sorry.” But I didn’t and I’m proud of that and yet I feel as though I have to tell you about this so you understand it’s a good thing rather than a “I am a heartless twat-slice who doesn’t give a fuck about feelings,” thing. 

Not that you would know. You weren’t there when I sent back my latte because it was a regular latte and not the salted caramel version listed on the hipsterly chalkboard. 

But I did. And I didn't apologize. Because I am a fucking rebel. 

I’ve been on Project Zero Fucks for the past couple years. Don’t ask me what prompted it since who ever knows why they get sick of their own shit. The evolution of a doormat is slow and confused, and somewhere between middle school and now, the moniker “nice” fell flat. I don’t want to be nice. I want to be a dynamic force of life. Preferably one who sleeps until noon and is generally pleasant, but a force nonetheless. 

It has occurred to me during the course of this unofficial project, that contrary to my countenance and hopeful self-perception, in my spare time, I frequently find myself with a strong urge to punch everyone I see. Which means, more than anything, that no one is ever just naturally nice all the way through. Or at least I am not. And middle school was a ruse. (Separate concepts that are equally true.)

I feel strongly about giving people the benefit of the doubt. You didn’t like your vodka soda? I’m not going to take it personally. You threw your credit card at me instead of handing it over like a civilized human? Probably something terrible happened to you on a Tuesday, or when you were five, or today over lunch, and really I can handle it and pick it back up. People in general have terrible self-awareness and no idea that the way they act comes off any way other than what they hope it looks like in their own heads. 

Forced niceties do not make any of this any easier. It is, actually, much easier and more enjoyable to be nice when no one is making me. Including me. 

So my project has morphed. I have to give certain, controlled fucks about things in order to not combust into a scatter of disorganized emotions. (There is a whole article about this here that is much more intelligently written, and quite compelling.) Project Well-Timed Fucks, then. 

In the first episode of The Wire, (I can’t help myself, I am HOPELESS with this show,) someone who I didn’t know yet because I got all the characters confused until episode three said, 

“He gave a fuck when it wasn’t his turn to give a fuck.” 

In the show, it’s not meant as the compliment I see it to be. But how else do you ever start a revolution than to do exactly that.

Or, you know, send back a latte because you need more sugar. Fucking rebel.