The Snob and The Social Reflex: Part Un

Am I frowning? But, boy, is it bright . . . Oh right, I have shades on. Am I still frowning?Urgh, it’s the public.


Please feel free to mention how absolutely dressed down I am, blending in so as to not have to garner any unsolicited attention from locals.Yeah right. We know the only blending in I’m good at is the blending in that involves the bronzer on my cheekbones and the blush on my cheeks. Now THAT’S what I call a natural transition. Do you think maybe I should’ve highlighted just above the cheekbone? Or a darker contour in the . . . Well, contour above my jawline. Hold on, I’m veering off.

Does it help that my schedule won’t allow for me to manage these cuticles, and so yes, they’ve got my attention in this place, surrounded by people who could also probably use a manicure. What an utterly boring distraction. When am I getting a grooming buddy?

So last November, I got myself (after much consideration and motivation from two of the closest non-women in my life, never again) a pair of sneakers!!!! *Gasp* Yes, sneakers. Why am I gasping? Why aren’t you? Well, you see I haven’t owned a sneaker since 5 years ago when it made sense to be so colloquially dressed, walking about, identifying as young and carefree. Of course, the pairs were well embellished. One, black padded quilting like a Chanel purse, the other with pink accents and a pink sole, and the other, a regular Converse high-top except for the doodles/grafitti that it was decorated with. Yes, they were all bought like that, picked out of a selection of bland running shoes. You see, I don’t think sneakers are shoes, I think of them as more of a necessary tool, like prescription medication (shoes for like, running and stuff?). So planning my outfits around these sneakers gave me a bit of a headache. Not to mention I had to learn how to walk in them, how ironic. Bite me.

So this is world’s apart from the postural exercise I’m used to. The ‘tuck in your butt, point your toes, drop your shoulders, hold in your core, hold your gaze in a thin, long imaginary line shooting straight forward’.

fancy outfit and sneakers

Nope. It’s basically ‘walk’. I found myself lifting my heel for no reason, arch-less, ball-less, stepping of the one foot followed by the other. Like . . . A boy.

Hey hey! The plus side. I can walk REALY fast, heck I can run! Do you know how exciting that is? Other than the fact that I might NEED to run (from something/someone, most likely for something, like a bus, out of the way of an asshole driver (read: right of way) or because I’m in a hurry or all of a sudden I realise that if I run now, I won’t have do those lunges later!). Reality is such a pain in the bunion.


Sigh, anyway. Or whatever. Sneakers.

They make feel a little less poised than I want to (maybe ought to) feel, a little less feminine, a little less entitled, a little . . . Low maintenance. Like a sliding door as opposed to a vault. Like an A4 page with a feint and margin as opposed to a taupe woodgrain wallpaper sprawling across 5metres . . . Like I can’t be excused for not knowing the meaning of the new slang word doing the rounds. Like ice, melting in a glass of room temperature water . . . And my feet still hurt.


They also make me feel like I should know the lyrics to A$AP Rocky/Drake/Kanye songs or perhaps just the names of pop artists and their shenanigans to begin with (Getting there), they make me feel like I can actually dance in a place other than in front of the mirror in my room. They make me feel like I’m drinking, like a lot more water than I am, they make me feel like college kid identifying as young and I guess I sort of am. It’s as if I’m not wearing shoes . . . I won’t repeat that prescription part, you know what I mean.

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I will never complain about the glamorous discomfort that heels provide, about the sway aiding the one already created by my waist-to-hip ratio, about the stuttering footsteps, the walking carefully down a flight of stairs, the hand I might need getting across badly maintained pavements, the sloth pace, not even the ankle I might break by walking carelessly. I mean, I said “never” right? Like, what do you want from me?

Shout out to all the snobs who drab away in flat colloquial shoes for necessity only to get home and slip on your favourite pair of heels to maintain that sought after arch in your foot and just revel in wearing something that was made for poise, statement and flair. Until your whole schedule of excuses to wear heels fills up, soak it all in.

And the next time you go out for a jol and your insensitive friend (we all have one) tries to hurry you, followed by, “Why are you wearing heels?” you have my go ahead to answer in a mini tantrum “Because I FUCKING WANT TO!”. Just do it.

P.S. Pictures of other people because I mean, I’m not ready to be photographed with sneakers on, like . . . Also, they are killing it. Go girls.

Over and (running) out.

The Snob.

5 Minutes With The Snob

Why are you so distracted?

Imaan Hamman getting even prettier. Photo:

Woah, woah woah! Start from the top. Don’t just come here and start talking prose from your ass. Take a deep a breath, I mean like wtf?

I’m a feminist now. So can I say ‘girls’ or ‘chicks’ referring to women? What about bitches and hoes, what’s the verdict on those? And sluts? Or should I say actively sexual exploiters, personally or otherwise . . . In the exploiting and not the dressing. Come on, wake up.

Go home Bob, you’re rich.

You know what I was thinking? . . . Nothing.

Do you think I need more hairspray?

Sui He “Is this smudging? Should I stop talking after this?”

If I’m not in the front, then why am I here?

Nice pot plant. Do you have an indoor gardener for your indoor plants or do you just spritz them from your water bottle?

You’re on ‘Brow-Duty’, I don’t want to feel betrayed when I look in the mirror later.

Do you have everything?

I don’t, for the life of me, understand why there isn’t any music playing.

Stockings, hmmm.

How’re my brows?



Love ya, bye.

xoxo. The Snob.

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Stupid Intelligent People

My thoughts, two days ago:

“Plane crashes in the French Alps. Why would anyone fly over such a high mountain range? Is that a thing? It shouldn’t be. Surely they take detours through lower places. Who the fuck is going TO the French Alps by plane? Isn’t that what trains are for? Like in that movie in which Brad Pitt’s character and his friend (or not) get arrested for being suspected as Nazi’s? I don’t know, really. Brad was the blondest of blonde and had that awkward as fuck German accent . . . Hmm . . . Anyway, they were travelling by train to reach the peaks, I guess they were planning on hiking the rest of the way. Whatever. Maybe today’s pilots should be flying higher with stronger, faster aircrafts. Our technology might have just reached a lag, or is it just not making it into popular culture? We need raised landing stations with smaller airports, for smaller aircrafts like helicopters to drop off at a lower point (as in ground level). It would be so over-the-top cool, literally. Surely it’d have to be accommodating, like a whole different city in the sky with different levels of gravity . . . Urhmm”

So all that lovely thought just ended up being drowned out by yesterday’s update. The pilot was suicidal (successfully) and basically took everyone down with him. Co-pilot, might I add. Andreas Lubitz, took the wheel and took a shot at population control too. Sigh. Seriously? Can we all see his recent psyche evaluations, please? Here’s a good idea, let an unstable, selfish individual fly people to basically anywhere, but let’s add the French Alps in that route, in a plane in which the main pilot can be locked out of the cockpit. Insanity. Who’s taking the fall for this one? (The pun there that you think you’re registering is invalid because this plane didn’t fall, that would’ve been an accident, so just stop.)

Fine, people get sick of their lives and end up killing themselves. Some people take a significant amount of sleeping pills, shoot up whatever drug they trust to do the job, buy a gun and turn it on themselves, jump from buildings and cliffs, jump in front of speeding trains, gas themselves in cars, hang themselves, stab themselves, poison themselves with something fancy, slit their wrists . . . In Seven Pounds, Will Smith’s character, Tim, fills a bath with ice water, gets in and adds a jellyfish to the equation. That was brutal, beautiful, depressing, intelligent and creative. No, not Andreas Lubitz. He had to kill himself (and all the passengers) ON THE JOB. Like, just how busy was his work schedule? None of the above options occurred to him? Why doesn’t he fit the description of a terrorist? What he did was very similar to what suicide bombers do. Am I missing something? Aren’t we all?

So it turns out, they do fly over intense mountains, how romantic. These things fly high! . . . He took a PLUNGE! I guess I can’t hate a dead guy, but my heart goes out to those who lost their loved ones. I’d be devastated and furious!


It’s time for Germanwings to explain their sloppy staff member, they have a lot of answering to do. I wouldn’t want to be CEO right now. ‘Current Affairs’ are so fucked up. Grab your popcorn and your tissues, snobs. There’s probably more.


The Snob.

P.S. Do try and enjoy your weekend, stay away from mountains for now, I think.

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