I remember treating my identity like a mistress because I loved who I was internally but was scared to be seen with that internal love in public.

To not give a fuck is to be as emotionally detached and uninvolved as the barista who just put their two weeks notice in. Maybe no one has ever said this, but at least the point lands— on not giving a damn about taking any outrageous orders right? We follow so many commands and orders in our everyday life, that it almost feels orchestrated. A little too orchestrated if you ask me. Kinda like a doll in a dollhouse that instinctively knows it has to cover its plastic butt to avoid offending the dollhouse. You have the option to not care, but the weight of scrutiny has shackled you to unsigned permission slips of dismissed autonomy.  Before this becomes some cool poetic talking post, lets dive into how not giving a fuck can do wonders for you.

Owning My Identity

For us to be born differently, we all sure tend to condition ourselves to move in a herd to avoid being a pariah. First of all, who cares? Your identity isn’t tied to a job, environment, or surface level stamp that someone decided was approved for you. I remember treating my identity like a mistress because I loved who I was internally but was scared to be seen with that internal love in public. What would people think? Are they laughing? These were all the thoughts that were only whispers to my echo of not giving a fuck. You have to own your identity or else someone else will arrogantly decide who you are. Sometimes I wear my hair pink, sometimes I wear skirts that feel like a daydream. I know who I am and I’m not asking permission to take up space in spaces that are enough to feel like economy seating. It’s about treating your identity as sorceress in a room full of unidentified pages. When you look in the mirror, do you see a mask or do you see a stark contrast of a shadow when you no longer care? Studies can’t prove this, but I have reason to believe that this makes you healthier and energetically badass. 

Be A Mirror With Legs

Too much bullshit is absorbed in the orb that we called the world. Too much conditioning, too much conformity, and just too much of anything that forces your hand to care. What if I told you—you’re just a mirror with legs? Everytime someone tries to project their laughable thinking onto you, you show them that you are comfortable in your skin. Truth be told, a lot of people face a silent battle of wanting to be embraced by validation that keeps moving the goal post of what that looks like. Everytime people catch wind of your nonchalant attitude, you let that be a mirror of how you move in waves—not tsunamis. Weird metaphor, I know, you can suck your teeth (or roll your eyes) but you don’t have anything to prove. The people that get it will not ask you to audition for approval. You set the benchmark of what approval looks like in your world. I recall someone asking why my hair was pink. The reflection of their question made them externally expose themselves of someone that keeps giving a fuck. If it was our job to care about what other people think, then we’d all be banking in on more than just a 401k. Show the world that to be a mirror means to become impervious of any outside judgement .

Being Acute In An Obtuse World

Life can start feeling like an immutable math equation when you’re stretching yourself for people on thin ice. For example, not everyone will like an appetizer, but it’s not your duty to add extra ingredients—or seasoning to make it edible. You don’t get brownie points for bending, but instead negative points for not leaning into the art of being indifferent. You can give the world your blueprint and highlighted summaries (College memories anyone?) but even then it wouldn’t be able to fathom anything. I used to hold space for tacks to be invited into a balloon filled space. Everytime I expected understanding, one balloon of hope was bursted on how I viewed myself. It’s easy to wonder why you care, but it’s hard to reach the reality of not caring. Luckily for me hard routes are my middle name! (Ok it’s Jasmine, boom) but nonetheless I took the harder route of not caring. Of releasing resistance because even a rubber band snaps when you stretch it too far. Why would I snap for a world that would quickly dispose of me? Dudes and Dudettes…stop giving a fuck. It serves no one except for the voice in your head that wants you to stay safe. Fuck being safe. Embrace that beautiful chaos of being acute.

Don’t Be Safe, Be Brave

Being safe is a dreary fate that we’re rewriting the rules to. Once you don’t care, no one will either, because you’ve mastered being a portal of detachment. No one can penetrate your auric field if you use not giving a fuck as hard steel armor. It’s not an overnight B.S. process that fleets by. It’s one that needs to be silently trained like a solider of not-give-a-fuck-ville. Ok I’ll stop dropping the F bomb—but only if you start picking it up.

This isn’t a blog, it’s a portal.

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