It’s a Saturday afternoon and I’m walking around my flat, sad and alone. There is only one thing for it. One thing that may shift my day entirely on its axis, thus causing me to double-over, raise back up with hands aloft like a morphling from Ninja Turtles and embrace this new shiny life. I put my quaking hand into the cupboard, my fingertips stroking curved glass, itching at what is about to happen.
The biscuit jar.
The man of my dreams, the seed of my soul… But he is hollow. ‘What is this?’ I wonder aloud. I tuck the empty jar back into a dark corner, never to be seen again, forgotten and evicted like Kelly Osbourne from LA Fitness. A few droplets of salty tears sting my eyes, and I’m stunted with realisation. Wait a minute, I concur, I am not a shell, I am a human being, with a heart and all sorts. I have feelings, goddamnit!
And this, ladies and gentlemen is how I realised what it meant to really cry properly. Where tears are not droplets any longer, but shards of streaming tridents etching into fleshy cheeks. And this is the thing, when we cry, the use is generally not put to its rightful function. I might cry at a funeral, yes, tick. I might even cry at a broken ankle, ooh yes, very painful, weep weep. But crying because you pity yourself? You aren’t even deserving of biscuits.
But one person who of course is no stranger to biscuits is Snooki, the rodent from Jersey Shore that remains in our image whenever we see a clementine, or a big fat circle. A ‘mega star’ in her own right, with MTV’s agreement probably tattooed across her arse and elbows, she now thinks she can be all First Lady and pretend she cares about the rest of the country. Clips of Snooki flying over the Jersey Shore have recently been released for new show Restore the Shore (on MTV) (in MTV’s back garden) and Snooki is like, well in bits about it. She heartfully states, ‘this really sucks’ before dabbing away at her tears to say, ‘there’s like no boardwalk’.
Someone PLEASE pass her a tissue and tell her it’s not all, like, about her. The boardwalk may be gone, the rollercoaster you drunkenly rode on may have been washed away, your favourite stuffed toy may well have gotten a little soggy in the wreckage I DON’T KNOW. Those tears are painfully only for herself; the zooming camera designed to dote on her self-pity, inviting her to complain some more about the dampness of her tanning store or the twisted nature of her nail bar. It’s a miscellaneous cry. It’s a cry that asks for mummy and suck its thumb. It’s a cry that sits in the trolley at the supermarket.
But an entire show dedicated to this teary doughball? Surely not. An unhelpful reminder that the crap that nature gives breeds the crap that man has raised. Yes, what this new show fails to recognise is the true pity we should be feeling about situations of this nature. Like those people who may drudge through the murky waters trying to place where their home used to be, rather than careering over the site like a gloating assassin. Those who pick up the pieces of their life amongst roughage wondering where to begin, rather than those who are given a complementary back-rub because it’s just oh-so stressful.
For real, MTV needs to sort it out. Who could really debase themselves to Snooki spurting out her scripted feelings, pouring from her pixie dust heart about how sad it makes her to see that the alcove she vomited in that time is now full of washed up furniture. It wouldn’t even surprise me if she was completely oblivious to the catastrophe in the first place. . ‘If it’s called Sandy, then where’s all the sand? Is it under the water?’
I don’t know, Snooki, I don’t know. And who knows, perhaps this is God’s ham-fisted way of not just asking, but pleading, for no more Jersey Shore, thus wiping Snooki from the face of our screens for life. Or maybe we should just push her into a puddle.