I chatted with a nice lady recently that had decided to be angry with her own bottom because it was bigger than she wanted it to be.

Two things.

First, she openly admitted that she did little about her bottom issue other than (literally) sit on it.

Second, she was in a doubly-negative place because she was angry with her bottom for being too big, and angry also with herself that she was doing nothing at all about it.

I sometimes wish we recorded ourselves and listened back to how daft we are. I get fed up that I haven’t written that book I should write, because I don’t actually sit down and write it. I used to be angry that I was aging in ways I didn’t like, then to make me feel better I’d have four cans of Brewdog. And whenever I felt worried about finances I’d buy a load of shit I don’t need to make myself feel better.

Well, thanks to my friend with the annoying bottom, I now have something to remember if ever I am moaning about not having something I haven’t planned, worked hard or paid for yet.

It’s remembering the obvious pointlessness of being angry with your own arse.

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