So I’m in Kuala Lumpur now for a short holiday, and I lost my wallet. It is a Proenza Schouler wallet (a 21st birthday present), and it contained RM30, all my important cards, and possibly my house key. I just came back from making a police report. But really, I’m okay. Shit happens, I have to go through a lot of trouble, but I have a month left in Singapore and I get to redo all the shitty passport photographs that I’m embarrassed to show and no longer look like me.
What I’m not okay with is the way adults handle this situation. Yes, I understand that I am inconveniencing everyone involved. But that doesn’t give you the right to be condescending, especially when I am the one who’s bearing the brunt of the consequences and the guilt. Obviously I know that it’s important stuff that I lost. But don’t go telling me what to bring or not to bring – I’m 21, relatively well-travelled and have also been very careful with my belongings thus far. I have my own paranoias and my own habits. Point is, it doesn’t matter if I BROUGHT these things, it only matters if I LOST these things. Maybe I’m the only one with this logic here, but honestly, even if some things are more okay than others to lose, losing things (especially in a foreign country) is still a big fucking pile of steaming bullshit.
In the first place, I’m legally and arguably intellectually/emotionally an adult. I know what the hell I did wrong. I don’t need you to come nagging at me and making me feel worse about myself. The fact is there’s nothing I can do about the shitty situation except move on with my life and learn from my mistakes. I don’t need you to point them out for me to learn from them. This applies to every possible situation involving nagging, oh, and especially the ones where the person tells you to relax or asks you if you’re okay or makes the whole thing into a BIG FUCKING JOKE. I don’t want nagging, I don’t want consoling, I don’t want trivialising. Just deal with the situation as efficiently as possible and we can all climb the fuck out of this cesspool of post-loss masochistic guilt and bureaucratic nonsense.
That’s my rant. Oh, one more thing: Dear Mr Policeman, I don’t care if you made me type out my own police report because your English isn’t great and I needed a copy in English to bring back to Singapore. I’d rather the report be grammatically correct anyway. And I know I was wearing my loose-fitting plaid hipster shirt, that my hair is short, and that skinny jeans are unisex. But I sat across the table from you for at least 20 minutes. The least you could do is not ask for my gender in such a way that it sounded like you assumed I was MALE.