A Slacker too, I believe.
I am an M&S.
And I’m proud of it.
I’m also a happiness ninja. More on that at the end.
If you are aware of Gevlon over at the Greedy Goblin (no link love here) then you are probably aware of his views on the majority of the WoW population.
Basically, if you’ve ever spent gold on an item because it looked neat, made you smile, or amused you in any way but didn’t turn around and sell it for a profit then you have an issue with keeping up with the Joneses or are an attention whore.
Or at least, that’s what his posts (and his rabid supporters in the comments) come off as.
The focus of his recent drivel was vanity pets.
This response comment from “Chris” in particular caught me:
Name 1 reason for owning a pet. If that reason is ‘enjoyment’ or ‘pleasure’ than name 1 reason WHY they give you enjoyment or pleasure. They dont stimulate any nerves, they cant entertain you more than a dancing desktop application, they bring nothing to the warcraft experience.
The point is, they are worthless. As in valueless. It’s the same as owning a pet rock.
Somebody needs a hug!
(And I’m pretty sure that there was a pet rock in the house when I was growing up.)
The whole concept of enjoyment isn’t *supposed* to require an explanation.
Why do I like the color green more than yellow?
Why do I prefer chocolate to vanilla?
Why do I think fat little birds are adorable?
Why do we love the people we love?
Why do we play WoW? (Which, in relation to the above quote, why is the “warcraft experience” exempt from needing an enjoyment explanation? Unless he plays the game because someone forces him to and he’s not having any fun. If his reasoning is about nerve stimulation, a Taser would be even more stimulating.)
My husband and I are in the 28-34 age bracket.
We both are successful in our work, we pay our taxes, middle-class-white-collar, blah, blah, blah, just need a white picket fence.
Some might even mistake us for responsible adults.
We both are lucky enough to work from the comfort of our home (which we own, our second actually).
My husband and I are fairly (OK, completely) reclusive; venturing out of the house on average once a week.
I dye part of my hair purple.
Matter of fact, I go to the salon with a friend, it’s our “girl thing” and one of my few outside-world activities, and pay good money to someone to dye my hair purple. (It’s worth every penny to not have to clean up the mess.)
Last time I saw the Joneses (they’re across the street, about 2 houses down, you know – the ones with the perfectly manicured lawn and the always-washed nice cars), they did not have purple hair.
I am past the age of trying to stand out in the high school crowd.
There is no crowd, high school or otherwise, anywhere in my house.
As I’ve mentioned, we leave the house infrequently. A trip to the grocery store. Maybe hit the book store, watch a movie.
So if I’m doing it to be an attention whore, I’m not whoring myself out very well. My husband’s a horrible pimp, he thinks I’m bat shit crazy for dying my hair purple.
Most of my friends and family just roll their eyes at me over it.
The cat doesn’t seem to notice.
It’s not proven to be wildly popular with people rushing to copy me or asking me to have their babies. (Before you ask, no.)
(Other than the mess, my hair dresser does seem to enjoy getting to do something different than the normal highlights and bleachings.)
Half a month will go by and no one but me, my husband, and the cat sees it.
So why do I do it?
Because I like it.
Why do I like it?
Because I do. Duh.
When I worked in the office I had a little resin flamingo that sat on my desk (I also had two full-sized pink plastic lawn flamingos, but that’s another story).
Now that I work from home he sits on my bookshelf.
There’s nothing special about him.
He came from the dollar store, was most likely made in China and I’ll probably get lead poisoning from him.
But when I turn around and scan the bookshelf, he catches my eye and makes me smile, just like he did when I saw him sitting all alone on the shelf at the store.
I also smile when I see the 42 order number that my hubby liberated from a restaurant for me.
And the sculpture of a fat little bird.
And the pirate rubber ducky.
And my parrot that squawks, “Hey, show us your tits!” when squeezed. (Thanks, Dad!)
Or the collection of stuffed animals on my dresser. (Not all are remnants of childhood, many are adulthood acquisitions).
Or my My Little Pony collection (Completely purchased as an adult).
What does my hair, a resin flamingo, and vanity pets have in common?
They’re totally worthless.
To someone else. Apparently having them makes me a moron in someone else’s opinion.
But to me, they each make me happy in some small way – making them priceless.
I used to read a comic years ago in the newspaper called Sherman’s Lagoon. I haven’t read it in quite some time, but there was a series of strips on happiness that always stuck with me and my husband.
It boiled down to the crab pinches the shark’s tail – the crab gains happiness while the shark loses some.
They come to the conclusion that there is a limited amount of happiness in the world.
Any time you gain happiness, you are doing so at the expense of someone else.
I seem to be efficient at extracting happiness from a myriad of sources, possibly as efficiently as Gevlon can crush an economy on a server.
People like me must be stealing his happiness and that’s why he and his supporters come off as such angry people.
/2 will trade happiness for gold, pst =)
PS – I’ve come to my own conclusion that whether or not happiness is truly a fixed commodity, the opinions of unhappy people aren’t worth listening to. If their opinions were so great, they wouldn’t be so miserable.