Stop doing everything. Don’t say anything or be anything. Get as small as you possibly can without disappearing. Don’t exist. Or keep existing, but differently than before.

Remember: criticism is the same thing as wholesale condemnation and also murder, so react accordingly.

Apologize, but don’t really mean it, and plant a seed of secret resentment so deep in your own heart that years later you can’t even remember that you’re the one who nurtured it and made it grow, it seems that much like a native part of you.

Sink into a hole so deep that no one can ever find you.

No. No. No. No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no NO. NO.

JUST DIE. JUST GET SICK AND DIE AND THEN YOU’LL FEEL TERRIBLE YOU EVER SAID THOSE THINGS BECAUSE I’LL BE DEAD AND YOU’LL BE SO SO SO SORRY AND YOU’LL WISH YOU COULD BRING ME BACK BUT YOU CAN’T.

Give up on all of your goals immediately.

Tell everyone you know about the criticism, but in a way that makes it clear that you expect them to publicly find it ridiculous and assure you there’s not a shred of truth to it. Do this repeatedly, first while sober, then later after several glasses of wine on a Wednesday afternoon when no one else is really drinking except for you. “Can you believe it?” Ask them that repeatedly. “Can you believe that? About me?” Ask until no one will meet your eyes.

Spit until your throat bleeds.

Remember that life is a rich tapestry.

Become so rich and strong and tall that you’re a giant made out of gold and nobody can hurt you and everything you do is perfect and you can use your laser diamond eyes to melt the lungs of your enemies.

Dwell on it.

You can either be perfect or the biggest piece of shit who ever existed but not both, so if the criticism is right, you are the biggest piece of shit who ever existed. If it is not right, you are perfect and everyone else is wrong.

Fall in love with whoever criticized you. Don’t walk away until you’ve ruined their marriage.

Whisper their criticism every night to yourself until you have it memorized, word for word. Remember it forever. Have the words stitched into the shroud that covers your body before you’re lowered into the tomb so you and your criticism can embrace one another for eternity.

Do not rise above it. Never rise above anything. The sky is no place for a human.

Be sure not to separate the tone of the criticism from the content. If it was said ungracefully, it cannot be true. If it was said reasonably, it cannot be false.

Send an email explaining why you don’t deserve to be criticized, then another six emails after that, each one explaining the last, like a set of Russian nesting dolls that don’t think it’s your fault.

Set fire to something that was once beautiful.

Run into a cave and break your ankle so that people have to come find you and they see you lying at the bottom of this beautiful cave and maybe there’s a waterfall and the light from the crystals makes you look really beautiful and they say “Are you okay?” and you say “I think so” and they say “oh my God have you been here alone this whole time with a broken ankle” and you say “it’s okay” and they say “you’re so brave” and you are brave and you look so beautiful surrounded by cave crystals and everyone stands over you and says “oh wow” and “you poor beautiful thing” and “I’m so sorry we let you run into the cave but I’m so glad we found you” and let them carry you home and promise to be your best friends forever and that everything’s their fault and also they named the cave after you and you’re prettier than all of your enemies and your enemies all died of jealousy while you were in the cave.

Remember that there are only two kinds of people in the world: fans and haters. No true fan would ever express a criticism of you or your work; conversely no hater could ever seek to engage in a good-faith debate about something you said or did they disagree with. Dismiss everything everyone has to say about you.

Move away.

If it’s a close friend, say “Thank you for being so honest with me,” and then never talk to them again.

Do something with your feelings right away. It doesn’t matter what. Lash out, make a sculpture, whatever.

Log into YouTube and call someone “living Hitler” and “a waste of skin” until you feel better about yourself.

Remember, if someone doesn’t like your work, that means they don’t like you, and they wish that you had never been born, so just lay down in the road and die.

[Images viaWikimedia Commons]

Read more How To Respond To Criticism at The Toast.

meme-meme:

stabilized star trek shot

Laura Byko last wrote for The Toast about being politically incorrect, and proud of it.

***

Were you a stoner, a jock, a nerd, or a many-talon’d extraterrestrial in high school?

High school was a crazy time, wasn’t it? Hormones swirling, report cards looming, diseases riddling your planet until only you remain – it was wild for everyone. What group were you part of?

1. Uh-oh, you forgot about a major test in Econ today! You…

a. Smoke a joint. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.

b. Get your coach to talk to your Econ teacher. You’ve been practicing so hard lately. It only makes sense that you’d forget about a test.

c. Forget about a test? Seriously? What is this, amateur hour? You’ve been ready for this test for days.

d. A month ago, this all would have been a fantasy. A hellish fantasy, sure, but an apocalyptic scenario like this – it was only possible in your darkest nightmares. You prepare to take flight. Survey your planet one last time. Maybe you missed something. Some speck of hope. You know you didn’t. It feels good to unfold your wings. A small mercy they still work at all.

2. The homecoming dance is next week, and you don’t have a date yet! You…

a. Smoke a joint. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great. 

b. Flex your muscles a bit in the cafeteria and wait for the potential dates to start lining up. Gosh, you look good. Wow. You can understand if people have been too intimidated to approach you. 

c. Ugh, homecoming. Where a bunch of sweaty cretins get to almost touch genitals, separated by only a few layers of clothing. You’ll be staying home, and it’s not because your crush doesn’t even know you exist. That’s not why at all.

d. You start to wing your way to Mount Anarat. Flying is nice – you can gust through some of the fetid air this way. The stench of disease isn’t totally inescapable, you find. But the sight. The sight. Skeletons everywhere. They look like forests, all of them. Ancient, gnarled forests that lost their leaves to history and turned ashen and sparse.

3. You’re watching a movie today in history class. You…

a. Smoke a joint. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.

b. Use the time to daydream about scoring the winning goal and being drenched in Gatorade. Movies are opportunities to zone out, obviously.

c. Take notes. You never know what’s going to pop up on a test!

d. Your planet was called Darinia, but now you’re the only one who knows. Someone might come across it someday. Rename it. Excavate it. Decorate a new village with the ruins of your civilization. Maybe that village, maybe it will grow diseased too. Maybe everything rots in the end. No exceptions. You chide yourself. You shouldn’t wish this on anyone, not even whatever life profanes Darinia after you’re gone.

4. There’s a blizzard outside, and you get a snow day! You…

a. Smoke a joint. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great. 

b. Build a massive snow fort and get all your friends involved in a snowball fight. Nothing like keeping active to keep warm.

c. Take advantage of your day off to get ahead on homework. You may even have time to do some extra credit!

d. As you land, you look down at yourself. Fourteen talons, gorgeous green things. It was the talons that went first, for the others. They turned a milky blue. Seemed to hollow out, somehow. So light, so delicate. Their chief weaponry turned to statuary. Yours are as vibrant as ever. You stretch out and lop off a chunk of the mountain, just because you can. 

5. Your basketball team is playing against your rival school tonight. You…

a. Smoke a joint. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great. 

b. Are starting in the game. You can’t wait to take those suckers down. 

c. Don’t care. You prefer sports of the mind.

d. Their wings went next.  They shriveled up until the bones protruded at awful angles. Robbed of their flight, they hobbled around on eight legs as though they were chained to the ground. The gravity seemed to hook their spines. Eventually, you couldn’t fly without an intense guilt shadowing you, as though you were showing off your basic functionality. But you don’t have to worry about that anymore. There’s no one around to see you.

6. Your best friend wants to copy your homework. You…

a. Smoke a joint. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.

b. Are confused as to why he thinks you’d be a good resource for this. You then direct him to the person you copied off of five minutes ago.

c. Refuse. If you lose your academic integrity, what will you have left?

d. The way it happened – there was so much confusion. But even when you understood, when you all understood, it still didn’t make sense. You’d had sicknesses before, but this, this was war. A people at war with itself from the inside, and winning. You guess the war’s over now. You’re alive, but you’re on the losing side. 

7. You find a note from a secret admirer in your locker. You…

a. Smoke a joint. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.

b. Are way stoked. You did have a great game last night. Someone was bound to have noticed.

c. Despair at the cruel prank someone is pulling on you. You can’t even allow yourself to get your hopes up. Nope. Nope.

d. The view is spectacular. Darinia is a craggy planet. Its land juts out every which way and the mountains look like they’re dripping up into the sky. They’re layered with purples and blues and oranges, and the sky is the softest yellow imaginable, and together they form the landscape of your life. All your memories, all the best ones – they were against this backdrop, and you barely appreciated it. You appreciate it now. So, so much.

8. Your parents are going out of town for the weekend, and they explicitly told you not to throw a party. You…

a. Smoke a joint. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.

b. Prepare to throw a rager. They’ll never know, unless you drunkenly start playing catch with vases again. But that probably won’t happen.

c. Consider having a couple friends over, before realizing that might fall into the scope of a party. Looks like you’ll be spending the weekend alone, just the way you like it.

d. The smell is obvious, but when you’re alone, sitting on the mountain, it’s the silence that’s more sinister. It snakes its way into you through your ears and your eyes and your claws until each beat of your hearts seems unnatural. You, your breath, your movement – you’re the outlier now, an intruder in a lifeless world. You’re the exception, and you don’t know why.

9. The school day is over, and everyone is heading to after school activities. You…

a. Smoke a joint. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.

b. Head to practice, duh. 

c. Have to decide between going to Model UN and Mock Trial. You put the “extra” in extracurricular.

d. You wonder if you’re special somehow. You’ve always assumed your averageness. Specialness shouldn’t feel like this, should it? Like you’re full of rocks and rage? You decide that you’re the last, and that’s all. Last doesn’t mean good, and it doesn’t mean bad, and it doesn’t mean special. It just means last. 

10. It’s time to vote for senior superlatives! You…

a. Smoke a joint. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.

b. Know you’ll probably get Most Athletic, but wish people could look beyond your muscles and see that you should win Prettiest Eyes more than anything else.

c. Know that you’ll probably get Most Intelligent, but wish people could look beyond your grades and see that you should win Prettiest Eyes more than anything else.

d. Your wings beat faster and faster as you fly straight up. This place has nothing to offer you, so you offer yourself to it. It hasn’t chewed you up yet, for whatever reason. No Darinian has ever tried to escape the atmosphere before. No Darinian will again. Maybe it will rip you apart, scatter your tatters back down to lay with your people. Maybe you’ll break through, somersault among the stars before you find a new place to bed down. Either way – you’ll be free. 

Now for the results! You answered…

Mostly As: You were a total stoner. You could float between cliques, befriending anyone who wanted to talk about the origin of the universe or how weird feet look, if you think about it. You know? All those toes. Weird.

Mostly Bs: You were a major jock, excited about all things athletic. You really enjoyed high school. You even occasionally refer to your time there as “the glory days,” which your non-jock friends don’t even pretend to understand.

Mostly Cs: You were a complete nerd. You acted as though you were above most typical teenager-type activities, but that was mostly to mask your feelings of loneliness and strangeness. You were really smart, though!

Mostly Ds: You didn’t deserve this. No one deserves this. I’m so sorry – sorry for your loss. Sorry for everything, I guess. I’m sorry.

Read more Quiz: Who Were You In High School? at The Toast.

The first time I met Bill Murray, I was 18 years old and wearing a miserable brown ensemble.

The garments belonged to my mother, and for unknown reasons I had filched them to add to my own wardrobe in New York: a chocolate, polyester blouse, light-washed jeans, and mahogany, backless loafers in the style of re-imagined Mary Janes. I had just moved to the city for college and the independent film I interned for consisted of a tidy editorial crew (Editor, Assistant Editor, and me.) Rather than cool clothes, I outfitted myself with that spirited, blind alacrity only youth affords. I was thrilled to work on a real film—in the Big Apple!—and anytime a celebrity popped by to visit our director, I feigned (poorly, I’m sure) aloofness. These icons largely ignored my existence, which I considered a common gesture in the feudal world of filmmaking: they noblemen, maintaining an understood distance, to my serfdom.

We all had crushes on our lead actor, Bill Murray (who we called by first name, naturally). “Bill might stop by today,” was a regularly quoted possibility that for months never materialized. Then one afternoon he appeared in our cutting room—very tall, sharply be-suited, his silver hair neatly combed to frame his genial face. I stood statue-still as he approached me, his arm extended.

“Hi, I’m Bill,” he said.

“I’m Jen,” I squeaked. “It’s… such a pleasure to meet you.” It was a phrase I had practiced often—one that, in our Korean family, I never grew up utilizing, but had fancied a polite, white-people-expression I ought to use more often. We shook hands for a good while.

Someone decided I should go on a fresh juice run. “Jen, do they have blood oranges?” Bill joked. “Nah, they’re probably not in season.”

I returned, giddy, and distributed the ginger/citrus/wheatgrass concoctions. Bill asked me where I was from, and wanted to know the particulars (“OK, but where exactly in southern California?”) and I was pleased he did not probe the way some strangers do (Where are you from originally, in Asia? North Korea or South?)

“I could tell you were new in town,” he said. “I noticed the Band-Aids on your feet. Are those new shoes?”

I looked down in horror. I had forgotten about the Band-Aids. My mother’s feet were smaller than mine, and with all the city-walking, the ill fit produced several unsightly blisters. They weren’t new, per se, but I said, “I guess,” and mentally crawled into a shame-cave with my mother’s ugly brown shoes.

“New to New York. New shoes. There’s a connection there,” he said. He sipped the dregs of his juice and smiled. I thought it’d be the last time I ever saw him. 

Ten years later: 4:30 a.m., Brooklyn. It was a particularly sweltering summer, but during the wee hours, that warm blanket of heat peeled back, gifting night owls like me a brief respite. I had just finished my shift slinging Prohibition-era cocktails to the score of a live New Orleans swing band. It was a decent gig to pay the bills.

Meanwhile, internally, I trudged my way through the bog of post-grad school malaise. Any high from completing my MFA had disintegrated entirely, and each morning as I closed the bar, I felt a little ridiculous changing out of my Peter Pan-collared dress, or while shutting the doors to the vintage icebox. In my normal clothes, I felt cripplingly stunted, bartending as if I was twenty-two again, this time deeper in debt and rankled by the fear of unfulfilled potential—unpleasantness only adulthood affords. I pondered these concerns while riding my bicycle down a desolate street. Suddenly, a man appeared, crossing without the right of way. He stared at his phone while walking. I slowed down, so as not to hit him. We were alone.

“Hello,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said, startled. “I wasn’t looking.”

“That’s OK.” And instead of letting the moment pass at that, I continued.

“We worked on a film years ago. I’m Jen,” I said, arm extended.

“Hi Jen,” he said. “I’m Bill. Bill Murray.”

We shook hands for a good while. He was still tall, his hair this time white and unruly, like some mad scientist. Though he had noticeably aged, he was as charming as I remembered. Since our last encounter, I had moved six times, earned two degrees, lived abroad once, fell in love twice, quit film. I was now 28. Funny thing, though, meeting someone again a decade later. All those years collapsed instantly; air and time flushed shut like the bellows of an accordion. I had altogether forgotten that unabashedly hopeful girl I used to be, in Band-Aids and brown shoes. But then there I was, shaking hands with Bill Murray.

I took off my helmet and Bill tussled my hair. We spoke about the film we worked on (it was special to him, to me) and his most recent project, shooting in the neighborhood. He asked me where I was from in California (“I’m so glad we got you out of there”) and what I was working on these days (“A book,” I said. “Good. Very good,” he said.”) We talked in that easy way, somewhere between acquaintances and friendly strangers. But it was getting late, so I said I ought to be on my way—truthfully, I didn’t want to ruin the moment. I doubt he remembered my brown clothes, or perhaps ever meeting me at all, but I could suddenly see that old version of myself with telescopic clarity. Our encounter revived some small part of that girl I used to be, who was eager, spirited, who wanted everything, in that way, as an adult, you begin to think is foolish.

I said, “It was such a pleasure to meet you again.”

He said, “Goodbye Jen.”

I hopped on my bike, and he insisted he give me a push. Then, I stared straight ahead into the empty street, and Bill Murray propelled me off into the dark toward home.

Jen Choi is a freelance writer in Brooklyn. She is currently working on a memoir.

Well, here we go again. Another story about a dead cyclist, another round of victim blaming.

Just over a month ago, I posted a critique of local news coverage about a drunk driver who killed a bike commuter. I argued that the news media took pains to affirm that the dead cyclist did not deserve to die by reporting that he was “careful” and wore protective equipment (lights and helmet). Headlines such as “Bicyclist fatally run over was new to Minneapolis, careful about bike safety” reminded some readers of the problematic rhetoric that media use when discussing sexual assault: “Woman raped was new to Minneapolis, careful about sexual assault.”

A victim of violence and their precautionary behavior is not relevant to these stories. What is relevant is the violence. By reaffirming that these victims were attempting to be “safe,” it then creates a dichotomy to those who are not “safe.” If a victim was not attempting to be safe, then how will their situation be read? And at the very least, who gets to define what is “safe”?

Unfortunately, this same narrative got repeated in local news all over again. Just this week, a local news story reported that Minneapolis police reopened a cold case on a 2008 hit-and-run that resulted in a dead cyclist. The driver was never caught.

The story started off by explaining that analysis of paint chips recovered at the scene point to a specific year, make, and model of vehicle that hit the cyclist.

And then, without any transition, the journalist writes:

With warmer weather soon to come, [Lt.] Hudok [of the Traffiic Investigations Unit] says cyclists should remember what it takes to safely share the road with motorists. More precautions should be taken beyond wearing a helmet.

“Light-colored or reflective clothing, especially in the evening hours, is helpful,” Hudok said. “Reflectors, bicycle lights, things of that sort are also great for increasing visibility and safety.”

And then the journalist abruptly mentions there are no witnesses for the hit-and-run crash.

First, Hudok’s comments have absolutely nothing to do with the case. The cyclist, Jim Nisser, was hit in September, many months into our warmer season. Nisser was never reported to not be wearing a helmet nor would a helmet have guaranteed a better outcome. The driver dragged Nisser under their vehicle for “some distance.”

Second, Nisser was known for being one of those “safe” cyclists that always wore protective gear. But, like the tragic case of Marcus Nalls, no amount of lights, reflective gear, or helmet usage can keep a driver from hitting you from behind. Ask any cyclist: it is our worst nightmare. You have no control over what drivers do behind you. All you can hope for is that they are paying attention while driving. In these cases, clearly distracted and impaired driving were the causes. The cyclists were victims.

Hudok’s comments do not reflect the situation with Nisser nor do they have anything to do with this sort of vehicular homicide. I mean really, a quote about how bicyclists should be cautious at night? Earlier in the article it said Nisser was riding in the morning. What do Hudok’s comments have to do with the cold case? These quotes read more like a rushed copy + paste than a thoughtful response to the crash.

So we could chalk this up to bad journalism and move on. Except these subtle moments in media send loud and clear messages about what it is to be a bicyclist in a vehicle-dominated street scape.

Here we have a hit-and-run cold case being re-opened that is 100% the fault of the driver resulting in a bicyclist’s death, and yet the official response is: hey bicyclists, you better be cautious out there!

It is also helpful to think through what it is not being said.

There is no statement about the dangers of driving under the influence, how drivers need to be extra cautious as the amount of bicyclists on the streets will increase with the temperature, or the ways in which drivers can make their presence known to bicyclists.

At the end of the article, there is generic police statement asking both drivers and cyclists to watch out for each other. But then follows up with statistics that show that both parties are equally to blame for crashes. In an article about how a driver was most definitely at fault, these two moments create confusion about where the blame is being put.

These articles, statements, and statistics generally suggest that bicyclists are expected to be responsible for our own safety. The “equal fault” statistic neglects to mention which party is driving a machine that can actually kill people. It is up to us to dress like Christmas trees (h/t J. Velo), stay extra vigilant at sunset, and wear a helmet. If we don’t do these things, the logic that follows is that we did not do enough to keep ourselves safe from those unpredictable drivers.

The behavior of both Nalls and Nisser was completely irrelevant to their deaths. So why does the media insist on focusing on the bicyclists’ behavior and not the drivers?

There is a running joke in Media Studies classrooms that teachers love to “ruin” media for students. We ruin it by exposing patterns in media representations that seek to reaffirm particular values, ideas, and politics that may not speak to all consumers. It is a rather complex approach to media analysis, but it is one that very clearly exposes how the media helps keep dominant ideologies in the forefront of media representations.

In this example, we can see the media perpetuating the idea that vehicles are the dominant form of transportation by producing “victim blaming” narratives about bicyclists.

It is no surprise that the U.S. privileges the motorized vehicle. But it is interesting even local news stories about a bicyclist’s death-via-car manage to reaffirm the subordination of bicyclists and their rights to safe riding conditions.

Quite simple, hegemony (the subtle coercion of people to accept dominant views) is all powerful. It finds all sorts of ways to stay put. Even in places where it doesn’t make much sense. It is our job to push against these moments so that we can shift what is considered hegemonic (it is movable!).

I really hope this is the last blog post I have to write about this issue.