Fluster

A lacklustre approach to life.

That’s some criticism no? Imagine a person saying that to another person.

‘You know what you suffer? Lacklustre.’

You know what else I suffer? It’s a condition found in the indie-flick female: Fluster. I suffer from fluster. God I wish I was a mum and had to take everything on the chin, god I want to be Californian so bad and have beachy hair with a don't-give-a-shit attitude. Why can't I be cool? I suffer from Fluster and this is how it is:

I have a conversation with a stranger and he’s male but I think that’s besides the point (and it never is besides the point). They come back to ask for my number and then I suffer from Fluster and give it over to him. Why? I don’t know what else to do in the situation, so to avoid embarrassment from his side and awkward apologies from mine, I just give him my number. Crumbs. I’m never going to respond and then I’ll feel bad. Fuckfluster.

So lacklustre and fuckfluster. The two traits of cutesy modern girls. I bet this didn’t happen in the 70s. They would shove men out the way with their shoulder pads. I bet this didn’t even happen in the 60s. They would surreptitiously uncross their mini-skirted legs, sweep their immaculate hair aside and bat heavy lashes. Cakes of mascara. But today it’s Converse and Fluster-sufferers.