I think I'm about to go on a journey, to move forward with my life and to generally get myself some passion.
The possibilities are endless:
Your boss says there is some external pressure to lift performance and achievement on every level; you finish applying your mascara and, without looking back over your shoulder say, slowly, with a last flourish of mascara: "#Can't relate." That should end well.
My daughter says she's hungry and needs dinner early but because she's eating healthy, can I make sure not to have too much fat in anything. I continue eating my chocolate bar and watching parliamentary TV, and don't bother even looking up: "#Can't relate - pork crackling with potatoes cooked in duck fat tonight. Because I like stuff that should be on public health warnings. Just saying!"
I might even throw in a latent eye-roll for good measure. Then I could switch channels and catch a brief outline of Mike Hosking, scream and quickly change channels.
Definitely can't relate. I could send a kidnapper note to Mr Key with letters cut out of a magazine. It would read: "Mr Key: Oravida + Milk scandal + Oravida + bottled water scandal + Oravida + swamp kauri scandal + Dirty Politics + Judith Collins repping us at the London anti-corruption conference this year = Dude, #seriously can't relate.
Gerry Brownlee in rugby gear running with a red tennis ball in his mouth. Leaf blowers? Auckland Housewives of Pointlessness? Meetings that are formalised theatre pieces with no tangible outcomes? Having to be reminded that stabbing stupid people is illegal? Can anyone relate?
"Miss. I really can't do this - it's too hard and I don't get it." "Mmmmm, #can't relate."
I'm pretending to read at the back of the classroom but glimpse enough of a jaw-drop to find satisfaction. "Miss. Can you help me edit this - what do you mean they're not sentences?"
Aah, Sorry, I thought that was my job but apparently relating is so last year so #can't relate." You're ratchet Miss. Seriously." Mmm. How are you spelling that?"