How many times in your life...
…has someone tried to mask a criticism, a slight or blatant disrespect by uttering the cop-out phrase,
“It’s not personal.”
And how many times after these asinine words have unfurled in your face, flaccid-dick-style, did you yearn to say,
“Not personal, my ass.”
No one will ever say these words to you unless a dagger has just been hurled your way.
Maybe taking everything to heart is an exhausting way to live. But what’s the alternative? Plod through life like nothing ever touches you? Is it even possible to filter out peoples’ f*ckwittery in favour of just the fun, loving stuff? I can’t.
Turning the other cheek feels like we’re just forgetting our flesh and bloodiness in these bot-fuelled times.
I maintain that recognising, nay, celebrating our humanity is a revolutionary act. I’m happy to be labelled ‘too sensitive’.
This week I almost got wiped out by a truck that ran a red light. I lifted my foot millimetres off the curb to cross and at that very second the truck flashed past me – a lightspeed torrent of fumes and metal. He wouldn’t have meant to fling me into oblivion.
It’s not personal, just morning rush hour, love.
Everything is personal because we are living, breathing, unique and beautiful, walking riots of emotions and experiences, triggers, fears and dreams and, and…
Trying to dress up the phrase as anything other than an insult to injury is akin to saying,
It’s not you, it’s me.
© Phyllis Foundis 2026