manifesto for unbecoming v1-3

Alice Margaret

manifesto for unbecoming

shed your happily ever afters, discard all dignity, forage contentment, embrace feraldom. grow your armpit hair out and plait it, let your friends know you love them, follow an old man into the forest. believe in all kinds of magic, turn all the lights on, save yourself sooner. get a degree or two, search for the wrong answers, freak out your neighbours. bargain with the gods, sing to your future children, fill a hamper with pink lillies. dream of disembowelling your rapists in height order, drink herbal tea, trim your nails in bed. scour your psyche, dine with your resenment, buy your girlfriend flowers. order twenty ceramic dolls from ebay, drink cheap wine, love your thighs, go to therapy fortnightly, dress outrageously. haunt your most problematic ex in the astral realm, touch grass, pull out your eyebrows, shield hope, cradle memory. fear men who proclaim themselves to be the alpha, hide your sharp objects, nurse fifty houseplants. go ice skating in august, hoover the carpet twice a day, mourn innocence. play poker with yourself, cosplay as an iceberg lettuce, smash the mirror that bedevils you, tell the truth. take your bipolar medication, remove the locks from the doors, watch your family die. start a rescue mission for yourself, buy glittery hotpants, think of your favourite beach. watch the moon fall, destroy your calendar, gaslight yourself into thinking you can do this. crochet a dysfunctional hat, learn to speak a forgotten language, edit your shit poetry, read it to passers by. wear an orange velvet suit to your sister’s wedding, bite a stranger’s toes, replace your bed with a hammock, monitor hatred. smile at your abuser, break your computer, deface junk mail, cry for sanity, sheperd bravery. cook a mean risotto, stop biting your nails. shave half your head in the dark without a mirror, text your first love. read a book backwards, transfigure shame. leave the groupchats you joined during a manic episode, picture a future you actually like, behave accordingly. lean into the overwhelming sense of dread, bake your grandmother’s apple cake recipe. choose to be kind, embrace your fear of nuclear war, relish magnificence. carry a paper bag through the rain, pet every dog you can, schedule a weekly sulk. write a manifesto, resist the urge to start again, pretend you know what you’re doing. confer with angels, paint your nails lilac, dance to eightie’s music at three a.m., surrender to joy for a fleeting moment.

manifesto for unbecoming v2

grow back your eyebrows, kill four houseplants, buy six more, scream to alanis morrisette on a sunday morning with your cat as witness, start a high salt diet, put on three jumpers at once, become ungovernable, make your mother a hot chocolate, sleep with a teddybear, perform a ritual, let your eleven year old cousin try sambuca, file your nails but keep the length, break up with your girlfriend via email, wear six inch platform glittery boots to your sisters wedding, cry during the speeches, observe your body’s failures, find your platonic soulmates, give your pet a bath, take your beta blockers, have coffee with god, read a book every week, accidentally drop your walking stick from a height and hit an unsuspecting stranger on the head with it. have a problematic ex cook you dinner, get irreparable ick. recycle everything, dogsit two identical labradors, try a new hairstyle, enter a soup era, start a small fire, covet perfume, empty your flowerpress, kiss your grandmother’s coffin, read your poetry to her one final time, mourn with abandon, send your pregnant friend cereal and herbal tea, hide your love letters in the wardrobe, write a book instead. reduce your nicotine intake, hug your foes, keep a secret, eat pastries regularly, keep your faith, steal back one of your baby teeth from your mother’s jewellery box, stop fighting your sorrow, check your room for mould, dance with oblivion, don’t match with weirdos on hinge. burn your candles, smudge your eyeliner, heal a dog bite, rewatch your comfort tv series for the fourth time, reject normal, offend your racist relatives over a sit down meal, let your voice shake, use mugs as flowerpots. high five your tattoo artist, cry regularly, be honest with your therapist, break your own heart, crush your guilt, allow things to not work out, praise chaos, click your neck, oil your scalp, resurrect an unfinished journal. shake hands with your fury, do it for real this time, cherish presence, weep with pride, succumb to laughter, take care of yourself for a change.

manifesto for unbecoming v3

start an unlikely collection, have an apocalypse nightmare, grease your knuckles, find an unexpected lover, let them take care of your eyebrows, manifest luck, sacrifice the delusion that you aren’t worthy. burn the sun, befriend a wild hyena, embody a still life of fruit. lament the year you wasted imprisoned, measure your pain in ounces, light incense in the evenings. wave goodbye to hell and back, examine the facets of rock bottom, don’t get too comfortable. practice mindful breathing, boogie in the cereal aisle of your local supermarket, abolish doubt, forgive yourself. tattoo a window on your ribs, chip a tooth, scrawl a signature, clutch at straws, hold your best friend’s newborn carefully. check your breasts for lumps, play golf underwater, ignore the voice in your head playing pitbull songs when you’re trying to sleep. expect chaos, neglect self sabotage, protect every speck of peace. rearrange your furniture, freeze the diaries you kept when you were fourteen, change your bedsheets, celebrate safety. admit that you are an unreliable narrator, acknowledge how you got here, check your horoscope. stomp on a gateaux, throw shade, eavesdrop on the train. covet satisfaction, avoid your old boss on social media, master the art of feng shui. prepare for disaster, trust the unknown, devour an entire tub of ice cream, impress your inner child. fall in love with life again, try not to cringe, rehome a disabled gecko, sing through discomfort, watch your feet turn purple. phone a nan that isn’t yours, feel your grief in all it’s glory. crack an egg, be a good guest, don’t let the cat piss in the bed. forgive your abuser, love your father, avoid a bed bug infestation, drink coffee from a chalice, win them over. send letters more often, mash sweet potato. read more stein, drink less wine, admit the growth, keep your hair long and unruly. check the facts, dress like a clown every now and then. celebrate enough anniversaries that you never run out of cake, genuinely smile, cherish a wishbone, break up a fight, notice broodiness, surprise yourself daily. let colours clash, let time be precious. learn as a privilege, let yourself go, make your ancestors proud. beat all the odds, prove them wrong, sing along to the radio in the shower even if your housemates are in. salute your safety, follow the voice that says you’re making it out of this one alive.