Another Plankton Rant: Count Your Blessings
September 21, 2011 § 52 Comments
Is it just me or do people come out with this old fucking chestnut the whole fucking time?
See a plankton looking a bit blue and out it comes, automatic as the gagging reflex, and there it is, splattered into the open yet again, this dainty little posset of wisdom. Funny thing is, if I counted my blessings as much as everyone told me to, and I count them an AWFUL lot, there wouldn’t be time to do anything else, let alone enjoy them, there wouldn’t be time even to fucking sneeze.
Perhaps people feel guilty because they’ve got so many blessings of their own they just lost count. I am not talking about my adorable, heavenly and supportive friends who are not remotely smug and who know I have been counting away, counting, counting and double counting till I’m blue in the fucking face and feet and arse for counting, and everything else you can think of, blue all over and throughout, like a goddamn blueberry; in fact that’s why I was looking so blue in the first place. Believe me, I’m some sort of Carol Vordemann mathematical whizz the amount of fricking counting I go in for. My good friends know they don’t need to flag up this particular nugget of advice to me. Indeed, they are entirely excluded from this rant which I can feel coming on… and which is going to sound way, way too bitter but is not meant bitterly, it’s more about the piousness inherent in the phrase itself than any bitterness towards those who are doing the telling because, honestly I do, I count my blessings every day as a fucking Basic, like cleaning my teeth or drinking water – without ever forgetting, of course, how lucky I am to have teeth to clean in the first place, and how fortunate I am to have running water.
No, I am talking about people in general who see this paltry plankton bobbing about all alone and – here comes the really-bitter-sounding bitter bit but isn’t really, I promise – and they think, “I am all cosy and married and living in a house so dripping with good taste you could eat it as if it were made of fucking gingerbread, and I am with my brilliant, handsome, clever, Croesus husband who never so much as looks at another woman twenty years younger than me or would dream of screwing anyone in the world when he’s got marvellous me, call me Blow-Job-On-Legs, because I can cook and cunt like an angel and make witty and clever conversation too, and we’ve got all our amazing children to boot, planet-crunching numbers of them in fact, every single one of them who happens to be a genius in his or her own unique and miraculous way. Oh, look over there, there’s a sad-fuck little plankton, THE Plankton, indeed, I’ve just GOT to have my say! But telling her to go on a course, why don’t you, fell rather on deaf ears last time I saw her, I’m not sure why, so what other little gem can I come up with that might make her feel that all-singing, all-dancing warm fuzzy feeling that Reception kids are told to feel every time they have Circle Time? Oooh, I know, she isn’t being slave traded by a violent, sadistic pimp. She isn’t starving in a famine-hit country far away. Her children don’t look like Red-Eye Ood in Doctor Who and aren’t jacking up smack at break time and turning to prostitution because they hate her so much, anything to get away from her. She isn’t needing to book a ticket to Dignitas quite yet. Her house isn’t entirely devoid of Farrow & Ball. She may be a slack cunt on botched legs, but she bloody well ought to realise how lucky she is! I’ve an idea!
“Plankton, come here, I have something really inspired to tell you which you might find helpful. It’s important. Read my lips. I know you are divorced and on your own and your chances of finding a lovely new man are about on a par with the good in the heart and soul of a mass-murdering dictator, but have you ever considered how things might be were you to… wait for it… it’s a good one, this… Count Your Blessings?”