erin brockovich, julia roberts, form, paperwork

Forms, forms, forms… Welcome to your nervous breakdown

I am form phobic. Forms are bastards. Forms are confusing bastards. Anal, confusing bastards. Has anyone reading this ever cried because the post office has sent them home for the third time with a passport form where the signature touched the side of the box? Or has anyone reading this had that thing where they fill in a whole form – a great, long, pig of a form – only to realise that they have been writing below the question when they should have been writing above the question. Does anyone reading this experience a shimmering white noise of panic the moment the prospect of a form looms? If you listen hard enough it’s not the wind, it’s the sound of millions of sighs as people are presented with forms. The form in case you die during a pedicure. Any form to do with cars or driving is designed to give you road rage. Basically never move house. The stress of the forms alone will kill you.

And so, you wonder, as you bugger up yet another form, how do people do it? If I can’t do it (and I can’t really, I generally end up asking someone at work to please put me out of my misery) when I am reasonably switched on and English is my first language, then how can idiots do it? For, hear me reader, there are many idiots in this world. Form-literate, form-conquering dickheads. Oh God. Shouldn’t we have evolved out of forms? Shouldn’t we have eyeball recognition forms by now? If they are going to abuse our personal data they might as well abuse it in a helpful way. Private in-form-ation.

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