This week at work I came to a shocking realisation: I am a ‘basic bitch’.
What is a basic bitch, pray tell? Well, according to the information overload at Wikipedia, a basic bitch can be defined as “women who are perceived to predominantly like mainstream products, trends, or music.”
Middle of the road. An average sheep. Dead centre of the bell curve. A completely unoriginal person who just bleats along with all the other sheep in the pack.
It's supposed to be an insult, but I don't understand. I love being basic. Normcore. Average as all shit.
So hand me a Boost Juice and light a scented candle — welcome to the diary of a Basic Bitch.
8:15 am: Roll out of bed. Reach phone. Roll back into bed.
8:16 am: Scroll Instagram. Several 'influencers' later, feel deeply ashamed and inadequate. Lightly fondle arse. Give it a 6/10. Decide going to gym. Spin class at 9. Today is a new day. This is the new you.
8:32 am: Prepare to leave bed.
8:40 am: Still on Instagram. Post some love heart eyes emojis on a few sporadic posts. Rip a Marilyn Monroe quote from someone's curated feed and post on wall. #morningvibes. Spend inordinate amount of time selecting filter. Choose one. Add subtle-but-important changes in contrast and brightening because you're not a sheep. You're a fuc*king artist.
8:42 am: Check if anyone has liked yet.
Mamamia Out Loud discuss the term "basic bitch". You can just about hear the moment that Monique realises she is one. (Post continues after audio.)
8:50 am: Out of bed. Decide on yoga instead. Lululemons on, check arse in mirror. Spenny leggings don't help, but they feel nice. Plan for a hit of kale juice after downward dog.
8:55 am: Empty can of dry shampoo into oily roots. Wish ponytail were more swishy.
9:33 am: During warrior pose, decide you are #blessed. You even think in #hashtags now. Spend the post-workout endorphins on perfecting gym selfie. Agonise for 18 minutes over caption. Decide on triple barrel of #blessed #happy #satmorningvibes. You're a fu*king wordsmith.
10:30 am: Hit brunch bar with Bec. Still wearing leggings but texted Bec beforehand to warn. Spend 10 minutes discussing merits of Kombucha on your gut-cleanse. It's only been 12 hours and you already feel different. Decide on a latte. Gram it!
12:02pm Swing past Kmart on way home. Buy rose gold contact. Also marble-look contact. Not sure for what purpose yet but feel empowered by craft potential. Consider applying for The Block.
You're a fu*king home stylist. Everyone says it. It's all the words you have in frames on the wall at home. #luxe
1:05 pm: Food court. Sushi for lunch! #noms. Purchase gourmet doughnut. You might be on a gut cleanse but you're not 'one of those people'. Besides, looks amaze on the Instagram. #treatyoself.
2:00pm Hair appointment. Fun! Take seven pinned photos of hair you like, mostly celebrities who travel with a pack of stylists to do it for them, and whose lighting and filters do not translate to your life. You're optimistic.
After three hours in the chair, take selfie in hairdresser announcing new look to friends. No one can really tell the difference. You still remain optimistic.
6:00 pm Girls night! Getting ready. Smash a voddy while shimmying to Taylor Swift and trying on eight different outfits. This is the most fun part of the night. You don't focus on this, though. You remain optimistic.
7:14 pm: Espresso martinis with the girls! Woot!
7:16 pm: Ask stranger to take group shot from high up. Higher. Higher please. Do they mind taking again? Angle body for optimal thigh gap look. Thigh gap non-existant. Should have gone to spin.
10:05 pm Convince friend to take "candid" shot of you in bar. Spend 14 minutes getting angle of arm correct and trying to look both dangerously glamorous and fun-loving at the same time. So hard to nail the "hot without trying" look. Download app that promises to facetune your skinny arm.
10:25 pm Instagramming while taking a slash. You're a master of multitasking. Leave dancing girl emoji on friends posts. #drinkdrankdrunk. Babes.
10:27 pm: Stumble upon stranded girl in bathroom with no toilet paper. Hand her some two-ply. You are f*cking Macgyver right now. End up in a flattery spiral where you swap compliments until you both run out. She's, like, sooooo nice. You should ask her to be in your social netty team. You swap numbers. You file her under "Toilet paper girl" so you can place her later.
11:07 pm: Drunk confess to friends about having secret Pinterest board of wedding plans. Scope out bar for possible boyfriend that can enact said plans in two-five years. No attention forthcoming. Query the faint smell of St Tropez? Possible man repellent?
12:12 am: In Uber on way home, decide night was a waste of shaving your legs. Stand in kitchen in Ugg Boots and giant undies, eating peanut butter straight from the jar. Wish it was Nutella but you can't have it in the house.
1:07 am: Scroll Instagram. End up on Pinterest looking at home styling and productivity hacks. Hope hangover isn't terrible. Vow to spend tomorrow with a cup of tea, your favourite scented candle, and your kikki K diary, planning how to improve your life.
Actually spend it watching Gilmore Girls, eating corn chips, and browsing ASOS.
Maybe next weekend. After all, there's all that contact to use.
Follow Monique on Facebook here. She is basic and proud.