Politics

Amok Mama: Attention Whore

Jacinta hasn't been listening to David Bowie's "I'm Afraid of Americans". She isn't afraid of them – she hates them. She hates them and she's an Attention Whore.

“Did you see all the negative comments you got on your blog this week?” my boyfriend asked me over a Weissweinschorle in Valentinsstube.

I looked at him, totally horrified and gobsmacked and shocked and stuff like that.

“Oh my God,” I hissed, disapprovingly. “Of course I did. I can’t believe you’re bringing that to my attention. Like, maybe I missed them? You’re pointing it out, just in case I missed them? I can’t believe you just did that.”

He shrugged. “I was just checking,” he said.

“I know why I got so many negative comments this week,” I said. “It’s because I used “tore” as a past participle in the opening sentence. Well, the second sentence. It’s really embarrassing. I don’t even do that when I’m talking. Well, not that much, anyways. But I was really drunk when I wrote that blog, you know, and then when I noticed in the morning, I kind of felt that “tore” instead of “torn” made the tearing more violent and final, like it made the two pieces of my heart really seem like they’d been ripped in two. And plus I couldn’t be bothered logging in and all that. Bit of a palaver. Anyway, I’ve decided what I’m going to do my next blog on.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m going to call it ‘Attention Whore trolling above the line,’ and then I’m going to feministically deconstruct the term “attention whore” because it’s just silly. They’re just being silly misogynists, they’re just silly-billies, really. Like, Cleopatra was an attention whore and Lady Di and all those women. It’s basically a human being with a vagina who wants to actually exist. You know I always thought it was a metaphor? Even though I really despise Americans, I think they’re the lowest of the low, and that their culture is basically intrinsically inferior to European culture and they should all be force-fed MDMA and period blood sandwiches for the rest of their lives, that’d sort them out, MDMA and a period blood sandwich for breakfast every day, then they’d stop having all these ugly opinions about raping strippers and, you know, playing rounders –”

“It’s called baseball,” my boyfriend said quietly.

“It’s rounders,” I said. “It’s rounders with a silly helmet on. If I had my way, every American alive would be forced to eat a jar of MDMA and a Periodenblutstulle every morning instead of muesli – and they’d never be allowed to make any movies with Adam Sandler in them ever, either. They’ve made enough of those. God, I hate Americans. They are hideous creatures.”

“You like my friend Victor,” my boyfriend pointed out. I ignored this. I really do like his friend Victor. He is well alright. I like him almost as much as I would if he weren’t American.

“God, I hate them,” I continued. “However, even though I hold them to be the lowest possible common denominator type thingimajig you can have on earth, nevertheless, I still overestimated the phrase ‘attention whore.’ Even though I despise them, they still disappointed me! That’s how crap they are. I thought it was a metaphor. I thought attention was like sex or money or something. I thought it was a metaphor. But no, it’s just a human being, with a vagina, and she’s a whore, because she has a vagina. Her vagina means you can pay her for sex, and even if you can’t, she still has one. Attention whore, it just means vagina-owner. God, I hate them. I projected onto their vile meaningless misogynistic phrase a meaning and content it didn’t have.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s not a metaphor. It’s just a whore who likes attention.”

“And then, you know what I’m gonna do? It’s gonna piss them off so much. I’m gonna list all the times people have recognized me in the street. You know, it must be about six or seven times by now. That time on the train, and that time in Alex, that time at Mauerpark and then that time at the Ufer and then that one time at that cake shop in Neukölln and that time in the West – where were we? Near KaDeWe. They’re gonna go mental. Sometimes I feel guilty for despising Americans a bit, and then they have opinions in front of me, and all their opinions are so disgusting and hideous and – and – and – ugly – that I just go back to despising them again, only without the guilty conscience.”

My boyfriend sighed.

“You’re gonna get so much hatred,” he said. “It’s not fair. It doesn’t matter what I write. I never get any negative comments, ever. I just get seven “Likes”. And one of them’s me, and one of them’s you. So that’s five “Likes”. And no negativity. It’s so depressing.”

“What about that guy who thinks you don’t know the difference between a leftie and a liberal?” I said, comfortingly.

“He doesn’t hate me,” sighed my boyfriend forlornly. “He just finds me slightly exasperating.”

But the thing is, now I’m actually here, Monday night, slaving away over my Apple Mac (I just deliberately mentioned that to piss you off even more, sorry), well, I can’t be bothered now, to do my list, you know. It’s a bit of a palaver, to be honest. Thing is, I kind of toyed with the idea of doing a great attention whores through history kind of thing, you know the kind of thing I mean? Anne Boleyn and all that lot. Whatserface. Boudica. That lot.

And then I thought: no, I’ll do all the times people have come up to me in the street and asked: “Are you that Poetry Slammer from England? Or the girl from Ä?” I mean, it has happened at least six or seven times. Oh, okay. Maybe five. I mean, you know, it’s not like I’m counting or anything. Okay, I’m counting. I am counting. I count. I am very much fucking counting. Of course I’m fucking counting. I’m an Attention Whore. Aren’t I? I’m an Attention Whore, i.e. a person with a vagina who wants to actually exist. And er, get recognized on the street sometimes. Yep. I’m an Attention Whore. And proud.