Anger Power
27 May 2018
Recently I forgot why I want to work in advertising so badly. Then I took an EasyJet flight and it all came back to me. I got so mad at the people boarding the flight, and more than at them I got mad at the company and the stupid “can’t bring more than one bag policy”.
My boyfriend got mad at me for being mad. But I learned a long time ago that within anger is creative power, and willingness to do (or make) something about it. When I was 18 someone stole my phone in a club. I was pretty drunk so they knew they could go through my bag that I had left at the table. The day after I woke up and my phone wasn’t there. I got so mad, I felt so powerless, the only thing I could do was insult those assholes who stole my phone knowing my first and last name, who my friends were and the state I was in.
So I wrote a Facebook post about how disgusting those people were for wandering through my bag, and whether they were so poor they needed to sell my iPhone pieces to survive. I asked whether they lived in favelas. Pretty harsh and pretty dumb, I know, but my phone magically came back to me through some of my dodgiest friends.
To me that was a decent achievement, because my ugly mad politically incorrect words helped me get what I wanted.
And if I can write my way into a better world where nobody steals your phone in a club, if I can do that through angry words and uninformed references I’ll live happily.
27 May 2018
Recently I forgot why I want to work in advertising so badly. Then I took an EasyJet flight and it all came back to me. I got so mad at the people boarding the flight, and more than at them I got mad at the company and the stupid “can’t bring more than one bag policy”.
My boyfriend got mad at me for being mad. But I learned a long time ago that within anger is creative power, and willingness to do (or make) something about it. When I was 18 someone stole my phone in a club. I was pretty drunk so they knew they could go through my bag that I had left at the table. The day after I woke up and my phone wasn’t there. I got so mad, I felt so powerless, the only thing I could do was insult those assholes who stole my phone knowing my first and last name, who my friends were and the state I was in.
So I wrote a Facebook post about how disgusting those people were for wandering through my bag, and whether they were so poor they needed to sell my iPhone pieces to survive. I asked whether they lived in favelas. Pretty harsh and pretty dumb, I know, but my phone magically came back to me through some of my dodgiest friends.
To me that was a decent achievement, because my ugly mad politically incorrect words helped me get what I wanted.
And if I can write my way into a better world where nobody steals your phone in a club, if I can do that through angry words and uninformed references I’ll live happily.