👉 Okay, letās tackle thisā¦ fascinatingā¦ new-old word! Pursuant to recent and frankly rather alarming ornithological murmurings on the internet (mostly involving a very sweaty gentleman with a spreadsheet named Bartholomew), we now need to define:
the ājoonfish."
Now, before I get choked by whatever bewildered expression is currently plastered upon your face. Let me assure you, it absolutely does not refer to an awkwardly speckled freshwater carp that swims perpetually backwards. Bartholomew assures us, rather emphatically, that the origin isā¦ nebulious. Essentially, a ājoonfish," as we now tentatively understand it within this admittedly small circle of bewildered linguists and Bartholomew himself, is a state: It isn't quite a feeling; neither quite an object. Rather, it describes the absolutely wretched, almost painfully specific sense that something utterly banal ā say, beige wallpaper, lukewarm chamomile tea, or a Tuesday afternoon ā has somehowā¦ seeped into you. You arenāt actively unhappy, not exactly. Justā¦ existing with the unsettling certainty of having been slowly and insipidly colonized by the uną¦ą§ą¦Ø. The sensation is most pronounced when confronted by things that should generally elicit at least a small degree of displeasure. It is the feeling that your soul has simply agreed to be upholstered in oatmeal. Bartholomew theorizes it might relate, somehow, to repressed childhood memories involving beige, the disappointment of unsalted crackers and the sheer, crushing weight of perfectly reasonable mediocrity
