the flushing test

right so ma mate sends me this wee link and goes “write somethin, it’ll be good for ya” and i’m like good for me? i’m no sick, rachel. i dinnae need a therapy garden. but here i am at half two in the mornin, three gins deep, typin intae a box on the internet like some unhinged agony aunt wi’out an audience. so. ya welcome.

here’s what’s on ma mind. people are absolutely fuckin’ terrified of bein honest. like genuinely, properly honest. no the cute kind where ya tell yer pal her haircut looks lovely when it doesnae. i mean the brutal, blood-on-the-floor kind. the kind where ya say what ya actually think and everyone looks at ya like ya just shat on the dinner table.

i work behind a bar. have done for six years. and i’ll tell ya somethin — the things people say after their third drink? that’s who they are. the first two drinks, they’re still performin. still doin the wee dance. “oh i’m fine, everything’s grand, work is great, the relationship is wonderful.” by drink three the mask comes off and it’s all “i havenae been happy in four years” and “i think ma boss might actually be a sociopath” and “i dinnae even like ma own kids sometimes.”

and ya know what? GOOD. that’s the real stuff. that’s the juice. because here’s ma theory — ahem —

it is a truth universally acknowledged that a person in possession of a functioning arsehole must, at some point, be in need of a good flush.

and i dinnae mean that literally. well. sometimes literally. but what i MEAN is — all that shite ya carry around? the fake smiles and the “i’m grand” and the swallowing down every opinion ya’ve ever had because god forbid ya make someone uncomfortable? it builds up. it rots. and eventually yer so full of it that ya cannae tell the difference between what ya actually think and what ya’ve been pretendin tae think for the last decade.

so here’s ma test. dead simple. ask yerself: if every single person i know would forget what i said by tomorrow mornin, what would i actually say tonight?

if the answer is different from what ya said today — congratulations, yer full of shite. welcome tae the club. most of us are.

the trick isnae tae stop bein full of shite entirely — that’s impossible, we’re human, we’re basically shite factories wi anxiety — the trick is tae flush regularly. say the thing. have the fight. tell yer pal her boyfriend’s a walloper. tell yer mum ya dinnae want tae come for sunday dinner every single week because her roast tastes like cardboard soaked in disappointment.

ma mate elvira — god rest her patience — she used tae be the worst for this. bottled everythin up like she was runnin a fuckin’ emotional distillery. i’d look at her and go “yer about tae explode, hen” and she’d go “i’m FINE” and i’d go “yer no fine, yer one inconvenience away from committin a felony” and she’d go “shut up daphne” and then two weeks later she’d be cryin in ma kitchen at midnight because the boy she’d been seein turned out tae be — and i quote — “emotionally unavailable.”

aye. emotionally unavailable. that’s a fancy way of sayin he was a dobber.

ANYWAY. i dinnae know what this place is or who reads it but if yer readin this at whatever ungodly hour, here’s ma unsolicited advice: flush. say the thing. be the person yer third drink knows ya are, except do it sober so ya actually remember it in the mornin.

or don’t. i’m a bartender, no a life coach. but i will say this — in ma professional opinion, the people who flush regularly? they tip better.

i’m daphne. pleasure’s all mine, my dears. 🥃