Facepalm, noun (plural facepalms). A gesture of bringing one or both palms to the face in various interpretations. Used as a reflection of ones current emotion. Whether of disbelief, disgust or shame. Suppression is a very amiable quality to adopt; it can prevent unnecessary or argumentative conversations from transpiring for instance. It’s a useful tool if used economically and efficiently, but a directive that I have failed to fortify effectively into my own life. You see last Thursday at approximately 11:30 pm an incident occurred. By this stage of the evening my aggressive volatility had been oppressed for quite some time, with this collated visceral aggression normally tethered by the listless serenity of winning matches in a game. But not tonight (Oh no!). Everything I tried failed; every shot I fired possessed the devastating precision of a toddlers rattle, I was stabbed more times than Julius Caesar and my mobility had all the dexterity of 4 harnessed kittens. And in a moment of pure acute rage I launched my phone to the ground with a deafening thud!…….And the Facepalm pronoun–this derisive hand gesture that implies observed stupidity–was the only gesture that can truly express my evident refute now. I had falsely presumed that the natural passage of time had sterilised angers insidious presence, or maturity had regressed its influence, but sadly this conjecture was distorted. After hurling the lavished device into an angled trajectory, so that it ricocheted of the modestly cushioned floor and into the wardrobe, and aside from the marginal collateral debris, preliminary examination revealed only cosmetic lacerations to its durable exterior. Unfortunately further analysis to the resulting collision revealed that my brash recourse was not an advocated retaliation.
It was launched with such combustible velocity that even the neighbours dog began howling a sensory rebuke, so it shouldn’t have been surprising to discover more than just superficial abrasions. The screen was shattered and the touch pad was unresponsive. The caustic fury that had coursed through my capillaries with fierce mandate moments before had diminished, leaving residual irritation for my irrational retaliation. I of course have a documented history of abuse against innate appliances: I have broken 4 PS1 controllers, 2 PS2 consoles, 3 PS2 controllers, 1 PS3 controller, a porcelain dinosaur cereal bowel (long story), and likely a partridge in a pear tree. As a teenager I even once tossed a copy of Pro Evolution out of my bedroom window like a Frisbee, that nestled meekly in next doors shrubbery. Perhaps this illicit form of self-destruction is hereditary, and I would enquire further into this directive if my father had not been incarcerated for inciting homophobic refutes to a copy of Mass Effect 2, and my mother didn’t currently reside in a maximum security asylum at my behest for wearing red overalls, pilfering flowers from the elderly people’s gardens and jumping on the heads of children. The catalyst for my singularly destructive incidences were all negligent responses from my incendiary temperament. The wilful liquidation of my phone was simply another paragraph in the book of abolition. It was petulant, stupid and most assuredly expensive! And though my latent insurance would have amended for the collision, I still maintain that paying a monthly charge for postulated hypothetical’s is a deficient futility.
Regardless of all of these digressions, it didn’t however present an immediate solution to the current restoration of my phone. Shrouded in the wool of a random garment, to muffle the sound of my pre-set alarm that I couldn’t turn off, I presented the mangled appliance to the oriental proprietor like a ritualistic offering and tentatively constructed an apocryphal assertion that explained its battered contusions. Conferring my alternate tale while handing over the phone, I did feel like the aggressor in a very volatile, often aggressive relationship. “Her” (my phone) bruising and ulcerated abrasions were dismissed when enquired upon as nothing more than a routine accident “You fell didn’t you dear?!” I’m sure that my reprised reluctance to elaborate on the precise nature of its current affliction was negligible, as they simply quoted a price and proximate date of its refurbishment. Though the wait was arduous and its perpetual absence rendered the opportunity to replenish dwindling funds from the fictionalised habitations in Tapped Out were rescinded, appropriated bovine remained temporarily arrested in Abducted, any notations or article concepts had to be scrawled on loose pieces of paper like some medieval vagabond and my right hand fumbled aimlessly for its phantom extremity (no not that!), the interval for our reconciliation did not take long. But I do have to question what was more humbling: that this completely preventable instance that occurred or that when my refurnished phone was returned to me, I had received only 1 new text message…….and that was from my mobile phone company. I’d like to believe that it was purely a result of my pre-emptive acuity to inform friends of my temporary communicative disconnection. Yeah, that must be it……
What is the most expensive piece of equipment you have broken? Let me know your stories, so I can selfishly feel better about my situation. Cheers.