Because: self-care

Today, I didn’t go to my appointment at the

computer store. I didn’t go to my appointment at the computer store, because I didn’t want to; the computer store is like going for an STI check when you know well you’ve been a big slut.

They ask you questions, which you will inevitably answer with a lie, even though it benefits precisely no one. No, I didn’t drop my phone in the bath. Yes, I’ve backed it up. Of course we used a condom. It’s not even itchy! And then they’ll tell you something you don’t want to know, and take all your money.

So I didn’t go to the computer store to fix my laptop — which is my source of income. Instead, I went to an art gallery and spied on interesting-looking couples and bought some nice postcards.

I did this because — self-care. Self-care also dictated that I cancel all my social engagements, and eat carrot cake for dinner. I deleted emails that I didn’t want to deal with: self-care.

Instead of sending an invoice for €60, I went on Asos and bought €65 worth of soft things: self-care. Instead of enduring the emotional labour of phoning the bank to regain access to my banking app, I exfoliated, and borrowed cash off my brother. I saw his slightly raised eyebrow for what it was: an act of aggression from an agent of the patriarchy, which casts women in a role of caring for others. “It’s called self-care, you misogynist pig,” I said, tucking his €20 note into my purse.

The ancient borrowed laptop I’m currently using switches itself off periodically, so work has become an extreme sport, or Russian roulette. I haven’t seen my friends, or worn a bra, in a while. I have Deliveroo’d several disgusting green juices to my door in lieu of fresh air and sunlight. I’m so well cared for. This is great. I’m doing great. Self-care!