Rant Day! Things Never Stopped Pissing Me Off, But I Forgot to Write Them Down!

Item 1: Welcome to grad school, where the rules are made up and deadlines don’t count. This whole MA thing might just take an entire year longer because they maybe won’t let me in the write-your-thesis seminar because I didn’t get a grade on one stupid other seminar in time. So fucking inflexible. But then I keep hearing stories that many girls just got in anyway, never mind that they were only halfway done with all their prerequisites. Look, I got everything done, I registered my topic, and I have a supervisor. Why can you never make an exception for me, huh?

Item 2: Had a very bad bout of depression about the state of women and the state of the world in general, and Boyfriend thinks I can’t read his thoughts. I know that he thinks its ridiculous, that’s why I don’t talk to him about it, even if he insists I talk to him about it. It’s not like he could solve the world for me. It’s not like he can even listen without an uncomfortable sigh or an interjection of “Well, men have it bad too, you know”. Yeah, well, that’s your own problem, isn’t it? Who’s creating problems for everyone?

Item 3: Boyfriend and my clothes. First it’s, “Are you wearing sweatpants?!” Yes. Yes, I am. We’re going to the grocery store, I’m not dressing up for that. It’s aisle 4 at the corner store, not the New York fashion week or some shit. Then later he said to me, “You could wear something like this sometimes” after seeing a woman presenter on TV in a dress. Okay, one: A guy who spent every day of the last thirty-odd years in jeans and t-shirts does not get to tell me how to dress. Two: Right, where? Am I going on TV? Am I getting paid? Do I get my own stylist? Are we going out? No, we never go out. So now I’m sitting here in my best red dress with all my jewellery on, and I’m playing Diablo III, and I’mma get my season char to level 70 before him. In style. Suck it, motherfucker.

Item 4: Overwatch is taking forever to get here, the alpha’s been out forever, come on, Blizz, I need something new to waste my life with!

Item 5: I’m so done with losing weight, I’m just going to pretend this is the fault of the Neanderthal DNA I no doubt carry in large quantities, they got a new study coming out in Bonn that Neanderthal DNA can influence your weight, maybe I should just send them a blood sample?

Item 6: I think I’m going to write a lengthy exposé about why school dress codes are fucking disgusting, because literally the only thing you’re teaching kids is that girls’ bodies are free to be policed by so-called ‘authorities’ at any and all points in their lives. So glad we don’t have this shit here, but who knows, stupidity is known to spread across the globe real fast.

Item 7: I’m not half as creative as I think I am, as evidenced by the fact that all porn parody titles I come up with already exist. Bet you didn’t know that “Whorrey Potter and the Sorcerer’s Balls” was a thing, eh? Apparently that one won an award.

Item 8: There’s an influx of graffiti in the ‘hood, so now I have to go out in the cold with my red pen and correct their spelling and grammar mistakes. Assholes. Everyone has a smart phone, but gods forbid they download a dictionary.

Item 9: So I looked at some what the facebook friends-of-friends promised me to be amusing pictures titled “Why my kid is crying”. Like the Queen, I was not amused. Most of the time I was thinking, Why are you snapping a picture when you should be slapping some sense into your dumb fucking kid? And that’s how I realised I’m still not ready for parenthood.


Rant Day! First Complaint of 2016, Wooo!

Item 1: Despite my best efforts, I gained even more fucking weight. I’d be seriously contemplating a gym membership if it wasn’t another drain on my financial resources. But I can’t keep ballooning up! I’m too damn broke to buy new pants!

Item 2: Now what’s this? What’s the object of all this white stuff outside? Is it an enormously large group of enormously large polar bears? Is it spilt paint? Did a cocaine truck fall over? No? Then what the hell is all that white stuff doing there? Just fancy frozen water? And the government’s doing nothing, it’s a fucking disgrace!

Item 3: Okay, so the local drug store is giving away this woman’s magazine for free. I take it in hopes of recipes. And every time I am severely disappointed because the trends of women’s magazine recipes seem to be a constant oscillation of roasted savoy cabbage on one extreme, and some high fashion something that involves 14 well-timed steps on the other. I know we’re all panicking about meat now, but can we have some normal food?

Item 4: Speaking of food, is anyone else baffled by this Paleo food trend thing? Eat like cavemen… except for the fact that you don’t because if you’re trying to eat like 50,000 BC you will soon find you can’t. I’m mainly annoyed with the word. Paleo. Paleolithic. I just…. This is not accurate! The Paleolithic age lasted for over two million years. Lots of things happen in over two million years. I mean, didn’t you notice the lack of mammoth and giant stag everywhere when you came up with that? Are we still hunting glyptodon? I dare you to google gylptodon. We should have tamed that thing because it’s awesome but humans weren’t on to the domestication trend back then. So what are you eating? meat. Beef. Pork. Chicken. While I’m all for eating meat, I’d like to point out that cows have been domesticated for 10,000 years, pigs for 13,000, chickens for some 8000 years. So… not really Paleo, is it? More like Mesolithic, get your facts straight, go visit a museum once in a while. I mean, you shun potatoes, which have also been cultivated for some 10,000 years as being ‘not Paleo’. Yet you’ll eat broccoli and kale which have only been cultivated since around the fifth century BC. Might as well skip the beef and chicken, too. Go hard or go home (to your cave)! And anyway, all evidence points to ‘cavemen’ eating literally everything. If you gave a caveperson a cupcake, they’d eat it. And maybe your hand, too, because you know what’s very Paleolithic? Cannibalism.

Also, if you think you can cheat death by going back to the roots or somesuch nonsense, I’d like to point out 1) neither in the Paleolithic nor in the Mesolithic age did humans live as long, on average, as they do now, and 2) that archaeologists have found evidence of bone cancer in a 120,000 year old skeleton. So you know… eat your cupcakes while you can. Just give up and change the name of your fad diet, it is not accurate and that’s bothering me! 

Item 5: What happens in Cologne does not stay in Cologne. So I wonder… if one of the women assaulted in Cologne on New Year’s had shot her assailant, would the police still not have heard or seen a thing? Just throwing that thought out there.

Item 6: My new bag is great, but extremely heavy even without anything in it. I could club someone to death with that thing. Which, given the recent outbursts of gender motivated violence in my city and nearby ones, is probably a good thing. If someone come at me, they gon’ eat handbag.

Yeah… try as I might to write it off as a joke, the new year so far has been a bit rough. It’s hard to be funny when you want to scream. Stay safe out there.

Rant Day! A Few Things That Earned Mine Ire, Oct 26 – Nov 1

Item 1: Brought to you by local news: So a guy punched a woman in the face on the subway in broad daylight, then slapped her boyfriend because she kissed her boyfriend and he felt provoked by that kiss because he hasn’t had a girlfriend in two years. It’s spreading! The stupidity is spreading! I told you this kinda shit would happen if we don’t put America under a giant glass dome soon! This level of entitlement is not indigenous, I tell you. People used to be reasonable here. No more so, apparently! Like, dude, really, you didn’t have a girlfriend in two years? Could that have anything to do with the fact that you like punching people in public, you fucked up asswipe? Can we bring back the pillory already? Or at least publish the name of this absolute tool somewhere, so women will know to avoid him forever. This is the kind of guy who’s stinking up the gene pool, don’t for the love of any god you care for let him breed. Spread the word, make it known.

Item 2: People on public transport, stop staring at me because I’m carrying a cake. Don’t you ever carry cake around? Sucks to be you, then, you probably don’t have any friends.

Item 3: I changed my thesis focus slightly and now I’m questioning everything I’m doing and have been doing and will ever do.

Item 4: Why do some amazon sellers insist on making their return policy as complicated as humanly possible? Okay, you know what, maybe I just keep this surplus item, this all seems just not worth the hassle.

Ahhhh. Actually, this wasn’t a bad week. Like, for me, personally. But now it’s November and I got a shit ton of stuff to do. So… don’t you get used to this.

I’m Lawrence of Underwearia, Bringing You the Gospel According to St. Trunks

So I’ve started wearing men’s underwear.

And Boyfriend had a mini freak out.

Story time! So I’ve been really frustrated with my underwear recently, because due to a mighty amount of squats the booty be bangin’ but my underpants fit no more. I’ve been having the wedgies from hell. I might as well wear thongs, only I don’t because that’s as good as having a piece of shoe lace between your butt cheeks and that’s hellishly uncomfortable. So I’ve tried to find cheap underwear in two sizes up, at which point things get really expensive. I’ve found some cute DC superhero ones, though.

At around the same general point in time, I had a doctor’s appointment one one of the hottest days of the week (32ºC at 11 a.m. What. The. Hell. Literally.), but cancelling was not an option. When the outside temperature approaches my body’s temperature I get really uncomfortable and sweaty and I have no idea what I should wear because ‘nothing’ is also not an option. We have semi-naked or naked women (yes, sometimes literally naked, no, we don’t even cover nipples around here) on every other billboard but somehow women can’t go out naked in public. Does this not make sense to anyone else? Anyway. So I don’t want to wear pants. I also don’t want to wear shorts and show my legs because I’m self-conscious. The floor length skirt is in the wash covered in cat hair from the previous day’s visit to grandma’s. The breezy joggers suffered a horrible ice cream related accident. Why don’t I own bermudas? Oh, right, because I look terrible in them. Damn you, vanity!

Conundrum! I could wear a dress, I guess, I have a knee length one. But I hate wearing dresses without leggings because I’m paranoid someone will try to peek or try to take an upskirt pic with their stupid cellphone camera which absolutely everyone has now (yes, I know, I’m really paranoid) and then I’d have to pepper spray and beat up someone and that will make me late for my appointment.

Problem solve? I could wear shorts under a dress, but that’s too damn hot. And suddenly, an idea strikes. What if I wore boxer briefs? They’re like shorts, but they’re also underwear. Best of both worlds! So I sneak on tippy toe to Boyfriend’s underwear drawer and purloin a pair. Have fun taking pics of acres of black shorts, perverts!

So I spend my day in a dress and boxer briefs and find… hey, this isn’t half bad. I mean, my legs are too thick for the boxers because Boyfriend’s a twig, but my entire ass fits in here. When has that ever happened? If they were a size bigger the legs wouldn’t even be a problem. Maybe I should nick some briefs more often (only to find that you should absolutely not wear them under skinny jeans). As you know from my previous posts, I wear a lot of men’s clothing with the exception of pants because they’re too tight around the hips and too loose around the middle because men are shaped weirdly. So by extension I never thought men’s underwear would fit me. Until now.

Another idea strikes. I shall purchase some trunks for myself! Only in a size Medium because apparently women have bigger legs than men. Or maybe it’s just me and the thunder thighs of doom. Anyway.

So off to the store I hop and get a three pack of black boxer briefs. I hop home (okay, I’m not actually hopping in case that wasn’t clear), throw my new purchases in the wash and tell Boyfriend “Oh, by the way, I got myself some boxers, they’re a size M though, so you know, please don’t get them mixed up with yours.”

And Boyfriend unleashes the bitchface.

“Boxer shorts?!” he echoes.

“I needed underwear,” I say, feeling inexplicably defensive.

“Why would you wear boxers? They’re for men!”

“They’re comfy.”

“But they’re for men, why don’t you buy women’s underwear?”

“It’s cloth and and they’re stitched together in the same sweatshop in Taiwan or somewhere, why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

“It’s a real turn off.”

And I unleash the bitchface. “You oughtta know.”

Two days later, I’m in boxers and contrary to all my hopes the briefs do absolutely nothing to turn him off. Apparently the bitchfit was thrown on principle alone. I really need to talk him into getting his head checked, this shit ain’t normal.

Literally, it’s just stretchy cloth that happens to fit better. And the part in front, it’s not even hanging down or anything, so no dick required. I mean, I wouldn’t have a problem with him wearing women’s underwear. They’d fit him well, seeing as he has the right amount of hips and butt, namely zero. Really, I don’t know how manufacturers imagine the majority of the female population. Yes, some of us are twigs but some of us are branches or maybe even trunks, pun very much not intended. And I, for one, have this weird shape that goes in and out and was en vogue circa 1892. This is what I have to work with, now give me decent knickers, not those strips that barely reach my hip bones and only cover half my ass!

And until then I’ll buy myself a drawer full of boxers. I shall defend my right to wear them to the death! They can take my life, but they can’t take my trunks! Technically I could even wear them outside because it’s not really noticeable that they’re underwear. And no one expects the Spanish Inquisition a woman in boxers.

The Bloody Chamber and the Bloody Ridiculousness of It All

So we discussed the Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber in a class I had. For those of you who don’t know the story, it’s basically a turn-of-the-century (from 19th to 20th in case that wasn’t clear) retelling of the Perrault’s Bluebeard fairy tale (Charles Perrault, 1697, the story itself is a lot older and the older versions have a lot more female agency) only from the perspective of the wife, who is a seventeen year old girl trying to escape the poverty she lives in with her widowed mother by marrying an insanely rich and perverted Marquis who plans to kill her like his other wives. Go look it up, but only read it if you have a strong stomach.

Anyway, I really just need to vent, because I also have to write a paper on this and I keep coming back to the class discussion. This is going to be about gender studies, so if you don’t like gender studies a) screw you, b) bye.

The discussion was interesting, albeit not from a literary point of view but from a psychological one. I mean… people were going on and on about how the seventeen year old working class narrator didn’t marry the Marquis for love and called her a gold-digger and an adulteress because the young piano tuner was nice to her and she noticed he was pretty. But no-one, absolutely nobody, lost a single word about how the middle-aged serial killer Marquis didn’t marry her for love either, but to make her his next murder victim. I mean, perspective, please! And that got me thinking. I mean, I get the criticism that this is a first person narrator and first person narration is always unreliable, even if nothing points to the narrator lying, but let me get this straight: A very young girl living in poverty, trying to earn a meagre living as a pianist, wants to escape poverty by way of marriage – not that she actively pursues that because she doesn’t, it just so happens – so she and her mother will be taken care of financially, and everyone calls her names and goes on about how “weeeeell she didn’t marry for luuurrrve”; but a guy about fifty who wants to marry a teenager so he can fuck her and then behead her, we go “Welp!”

I mean, come the hell on! Are we really this desensitised to male violence that we basically shrug and call it Tuesday? Is this just something we expect now? Are we really not going to talk about a guy who marries one woman after the other just so he can torture and kill them in horrible ways, and who sets his latest wife a trap just so he has a reason to kill her too because she ‘disobeyed’ him by discovering his murderous little secret? Are we just going to ignore all this in favour of calling a teenage girl a gold-digger and worse? Oh, we are? Well, fuck all y’all, that’s what’s wrong with the world!

And then there was that special case of a dude in the back who was like, well, if the Marquis had only found the perfect wife he would have stopped killing, basically he was torturing himself, to which, thankfully, the entire class decided this was taking things a step too far. I think sometimes the most scandalous thing a man today can do is to respect a woman’s choices. Like, seriously, no one cares if a man murders women, but I’m sure everyone would be writing paper upon paper about a male fictional character who is just a decent human being. But then they’d probably call him effeminate or emasculated (like the narrator’s second husband, the nice music-loving but blind piano tuner) or just plain boring.

It’s bad enough that in the story the entire castle staff and the village know what’s going on, because killing wives and women is sort of a family tradition apparently, and everyone’s just sort of okay with that. Takes the narrator’s mother to put a stop to this. And you know how? She got a phone call. One single phone call from her daughter that wasn’t even about “Hey, I just found hubby’s former wives”. Actually, that phone call was before all that. And mom rushes in like a maternal avenger and just shoots the bastard without a single word. One woman, one bullet, all it took to end a few centuries worth of murderous terror. I’d actually be interested in hearing the mother’s side of the story. Now that’s the kind of motherhood I could get behind.

Yeah, yeah, I know there are a lot of other different aspects to this story but I can’t be arsed to discuss them here, I already have a full formal analysis to write, so don’t come in here with “Oh, but you’re missing the point of the story”, because I’m not, I’m just standing on one of them and I’ll move on to the others when I’m good and ready. Just really, really needed to get that off my chest before I can go back to working. Peace.

Random Thought Tuesday, June 16

So I’ve been thinking…

I’m sure not the only one who doesn’t get the entire female viagra thing. Especially since a pill for this has existed since forever. It’s called a clitoris and if more men would just put it in their mouths you wouldn’t have any trouble with so-called “female erectile dysfunction”. Lesbians don’t seem to have this problem, wonder why! The only erectile dysfunction we have are the men in our lives. And maybe, just maybe we’d be more interested in sex if we had less work to do. You know, job, kids, household, taking care of the elderly, that don’t make us feel sexy.

Men everywhere, here are our criteria:

Rant Day! Things That Pissed Me Off, June 6 – June 12

Why do I think this week conspired with fate to make me throw myself out a very high window?

Item 1: I recently read an article stating that due to new analysis it turns out that 50% of buried Viking warriors in a grave were actually female. How do they know that? Because they finally analysed the damn bones! The bone structure and everything, which as every idiot should know, there are giant differences between male and female bone structures. Used to be, they just looked at the grave goods and were like “Huh, swords, shields, they were warriors. Obviously they were males!” I also read another article, where it turns out most stone age artists (the awesome cave painting artists) 40,000 years ago were actually mostly women! How do they know that? Because they finally analysed the damn paintings! Used to be, they just looked at the paintings and assumed they were made by men because obviously men were hunters so obviously they would paint animals as hunting magic. Why did they assume all this? I dunno, because men are obviously so much more logically inclined, I guess (it’s evolution, just like the fact that they have to sleep around whenever possible, dontchaknow.) And they just assumed. Because it was so obvious to them that women didn’t participate in society in the past, oh, 400,000 years. Which of course begs the question what else archaeologists and historians were wrong about because they based their claims on assumptions instead of actual evidence. If the fact that male scientists did not use actual science in a scientific discipline to back up their claims doesn’t convince you we still need feminism I don’t know what will.

Stop with the assuming and stick to good academic practice, damn you! End male bias in academia! When you assume you make and ass out of u and me.

Item 2: Printers. So we had to exchange the modem and predictably our wifi printer doesn’t work no mo’. So I’m like, no big deal, I’ll just install it anew. Except it is a big deal because it can’t find a connection on its own and the network cable is nowhere to be found. No big deal, I say, I shall purchase a new one. Except that I couldn’t find any store that had those very particular cables. No big deal, I say, I’ll order one on the Internet and print out my stuff at the library. Except that we only have two copiers in the library and the queue was very, very long. One girl was even nice enough to let me quickly print some files from my flash drive. Except that I forgot to print two files because I was in a hurry. No big deal, I say, I’ll print it after the seminar. Except that that printer was then broken and the other one out of paper. No big deal, I say as my eye starts to twitch, I’ll run down to the other building and print it there. Except that now my files weren’t working and thus not printable. No. Big. Deal, I say, now slightly frothing at the mouth and generally done with the world, I’ll upload them again and come back tomorrow, I say as I slouch homewards where I proceed to pour myself a very big drink. So I upload my files again. Go to the printing place again. Then the copier ate my copy card and still wouldn’t let me print.

But that’s no big deal, I’m sure the murderous rampage I went on after that will be ruled a crazy mass suicide by the police.

Item 3: Dear otherwise friendly librarian, don’t shush me just because I said thanks to the girl who let me use the copier. Those people around the corner you mention? They’re not actually working, they’re running around barefoot (!) and visiting with their friends. Go shush them!

Item 4: Potential employers everywhere: Don’t ask me to pretend your 10 hour a week job offer is my dream job. It’s not and we both know it. It’s not anyone’s dream job. You need someone to do work for you. I’m capable and diligent. Now let’s cut the bullshit, we both know I’m here about the money. Hire me, pay me, we could be so happy.

Seriously, I shouldn’t even have to write a cover letter for some 10 h/week temp job.

Item 5: I probably blew that postgraduate interview I was angsting about last week because I still have too little work experience in the field. Because somehow you always need work experience in a specific field before you can start education in this field. However that’s supposed to work, since everyone expects you to have this education before they can consider you for an internship, much less a job.

Item 6: “Hold on until Monday”. That’s my mantra until, uh, Monday. Then things will get easier and all I’ll have to do is write.

Some days I’m so done I pour whisky in my Ben&Jerry’s tub.

Dr. Bodyissues, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love my Love Handles

So because an interesting conversation happened this week on this post I thought maybe we could talk about this some more. So come along, girls of the internet, we’re gonna talk about our bodies and our less-than-stellar self esteem. All ages welcome, you can still be one of the girls even if you’re 116. Shall we? Okay, I’ll start. Be prepared for personal stuff.

So I’m the first person to admit that I do not in any way fit the current Western beauty standard. Actually, I’m the first person to admit that I’m not pretty and ain’t no one gonna tell me otherwise. And please don’t you start with “Oh no, surely you’re pretty!” (not a single picture of me to prove it either way, ha!) or, worse, “You’re pretty on the inside”. Because while I do possess an enviable liver those platitudes ain’t got an ounce of truth in them. I’m fishing for truth, not compliments. I’ve had this face and this body for a quarter of a century, I know what the hell I look like. In fact, I just found out I look frighteningly like Molly Ringwald. More like the uglier sister of Molly Ringwald, but nonetheless. I hate Molly Ringwald. I’m going to stop dying my hair read because of Molly Ringwald. Molly Ringwald can go suck it.

Aaaanyway, I’m not an SI swimsuit model and I’m never gonna be. I’m short, for one. I’m so pale if I stand in front of a wall naked I’ll be invisible. I also have this really odd face where everything just sort of looks wrong, thrown together without much care, like something went wrong on the assembly line. I’m not overweight (yet, I hope not, but I come from a long-lived, healthy, but overweight family) but I’m never going to be skinny. I have some ambivalent feelings about my body, I have good days and bad days. On good days I’m like, “Damn, guuurrl, look at you looking like a pre-Raphaelite painting!” On bad days I’m like, I’mma crawl into a hole and die. My body is old-fashioned. As in, it thinks it’s still the Ice Age. I gain fat like ain’t no thing, I could totally survive a famine. I also have some decent muscle, you just can’t see any of it. I got thighs that could choke a bear. Count on me to drag you out of a burning car. I can lift people 15 kg heavier than me. 15 kg of groceries to carry around a couple blocks? No problem, see you in ten. I can drag a 20 kg steel-frame bicycle up and down a couple flights of stairs. Hell, I’ll race you on that 20 kg steel-frame bike. Need help moving, I schlepp your boxes all day long. In other words, I’m a pretty strong ass mofo. I think that should count for something, you know, what I can do with this body instead of how it looks.

Society says: nope. Who cares how useful you can be if you don’t have a six pack, endless legs, perky titties, and a laundry list of other crap I can’t be bothered to type out.

And then they be like, do this to lose weight and do this for make-up, and here’s this season’s trends, oh and by the way, love yourself just the way you are. Because we’re totally not sending you mixed messages right now.

Sooo I can love myself the way I am as soon as I’m the way you want me to be, which is never, because there’s always something wrong? I’m so confused.

I struggled with my body image when I was younger, I mean, I guess we all have. Hell, I still do. The only people who ever called me beautiful were my parents, my senile great-aunt, and my current boyfriend (and like, that’s sort of their job, right?). My mom wasn’t any help when I was growing up, though. Somewhere around age ten she started telling me to stop eating so many sweets or else I would end up “looking like me” (meaning herself, mom was slender in her youth but gained tremendously as she got older (I’m not dissing my mom here, she’s amazing, shut up)). Like all moms she just meant well, I guess, but this just shows how very aware she was of how much looks matter in the world we live in. And how early I had to start being aware. Like I didn’t notice it so much with Barbie dolls, because shit, it’s a doll, ain’t no one gonna look like a plastic doll (this was before the internet exploded with weirdos who actually do look like dolls, ah, the age of innocence) and I always sort of wondered where her internal organs were, like if she was real she wouldn’t survive. And those feet, man. I did notice how princesses in fairy tales were always the fucking prettiest in all the country even though no one seemed to be doing evaluative field research on the matter, and who had all the personality of a street lamp (I still wanted to be one, because princesses grow up to be queens and queen means power!) and I did notice the millions of diets trending on the covers of mom’s magazines.

Twelve years of school bullying didn’t exactly make it easier to board the self acceptance train. One of my nicknames was a Viennese slang word for “ugly person”. Let’s just say if you want to take a sledgehammer to someone’s self-esteem, a decade of name calling is a very good tactic. Sticks and stones may break your bones but words grind away at your brain. (Take that, platitude slingers!) Add to that the usual impending teenage angst about being good enough, smart enough, beautiful enough, bullying bitch-ass teachers who can’t do their fucking jobs, why can’t I be like the other girls, no one will ever love meeee, and you got yourself your own circle of hell, self-image-wise.*

Now I could have tried to make something of myself, learn how to dress right, buy all the right brands (with all the money my parents didn’t have), lose weight, learn to do make-up, but I was like, nah. Too much work. And they’re just gonna mock my efforts to fit in anyway, so fuck the lot of ’em, and thus I spent my first twenty years in jeans and giant t-shirts. Basically my tactic was letting sarcasm rule every fibre of my being. “You’re ugly!” – “You don’t say! Are you always that smart?” This also coincided with my “I’m not like other girls” phase (admit it, we all go through that one). Basically I made not fitting in a point of pride. And despite all that, I still had half a handful of friends. Girl friends made fun of me for being so mannish, and guy friends tried to get me to set them up with my cute friends, but hey, can’t have everything.

So as you can see I had a glorious start into female adulthood. Sometime after high school I actually lost some weight and put in some effort, only to slack and gain it back again. Did any of that make me better liked or more socially apt? Nope.

I mean, I’m human. I want attention. I want validation. I want someone to look at me like I’m the only person in the world that matters. I’m selfish and insecure and I want someone to solve this for me. But placing this responsibility on someone else is a real problem.

You know what did help me? Having some damned confidence. You know how you get that? Well, it’s a bit like taking the ring to Mordor. Minus the Elves that help you at every step. And minus Sam. And plus a billion annoying gollums. And more orcs than you can shake a shiny sword at. That you don’t have because budget cuts.

And you’re not even halfway out of the Shire yet.

Okay, first, sport.

No, actually first, growing up and getting over myself. No really, it gets better with age. Gonna be a boss ass bitch by 90.

Okay, so sport. Despite being a pudgy asthmatic with fucking knee issues I’ve always been top of the class in sport. I wasn’t one of them bitches sitting on the bench because I may or may not get my period within the next two weeks-ish. Two years ago I took up sports again and never looked back. I know it’s a cliché, but if you struggle with your body, do sport, it actually works. Anything, doesn’t matter. Even if it’s just a walk in the park. Even if it’s just vigorous sex. Actually, especially if it’s vigorous sex. I think we’re having so much trouble accepting our bodies because we’re drilled since infancy to make it look pleasing to others and use it to please others, and never really get a chance to think about what our bodies can do for ourselves. So do something for yourself and get yourself some endorphins. And being able to brag about muscles is pretty neat too, it makes people afraid.

Second, being aware that everything is lying to us. Everything. Always. All damn day long. Especially people who want to sell us shit. So I don’t look like the girl on the magazine. The girl on the magazine doesn’t look like the girl on the magazine, because she’s been airbrushed to high hell. With magazines and TV ads and ads in general I like to play a game of Spot The ‘Shop. It’s really obvious once you’ve trained your eyes. No fancy high class expensive anything is gonna make me look like that, unless we’re talking about like glasses or a helmet that projects a hologram image unto my entire body and makes me look like someone else. Now available: the new Scarlett Johansson expansion pack with three different hair colours!

… actually that sounds like an awesome idea. Wear leggings all day and still look like you’re at the Oscar’s. Patenting this idea!

Third, simple bloody-mindedness. I have bad days. I trash-talk myself and I’m sure you do too. I pinch my fat, or squeeze the area where my ample DD bosoms should be, and actually start to think about the possibility of ironing my cellulite and the wrinkles around my eyes, because god dammit! And then I’m like, fuck it all, and eat ice cream while watching funny moments from one of the million model casting shows on Youtube. And, okay, I admit, sometimes I get really mean while doing so, all like “Haha, skinny bitches, everyone wants to fuck you but no one will give you ice cream! See this ice cream? Seeee this delicious ice cream I’m eating? You can’t haz!” Because trash-talking other women is also an integral part of our fucked up social programming, but that’s a topic for another time.

(Seriously though, if you were to make me choose between modelling and ice cream I’d be like, bring on the insulin, I’m gonna need it.)

After consuming hundreds of tutorials I actually can dress like an adult now. I can also do some basic make-up and I’m not upgrading that skill because ain’t nobody got time for that. I said in the beginning I’m not pretty and I don’t want to be because pretty is not enough, I want to be drop-dead gorgeous. Only without putting in any effort. And that’s where confidence comes in, the next best thing to hologram glasses. I want to be confident or at least make people think I am. This little hobbit barely made it to Bree and is aggressive about her looks, can’t decide it that’s a good thing yet. Like, my face is gonna be good enough for you or I’mma rearrange yours. Like, comment on my body and I’m going to make you feel two inches tall because I know how to make someone feel worthless, I learned from the best. Like, bitch please, I’m fabulous.

Basically, I want people to be too afraid of my wrath to judge me. That’s as good as being beautiful in my book.

Thankfully I live in a country where people would rather suffocate than talk to a stranger, so no one comments on anyone they don’t know well, ever. So if someone says you look nice, be wary, they probably want a favour. The downside of this little titbit of social trivia is of course, as soon as people know you well, they start doling out advice (i.e. telling you everything that’s wrong with you) like cheap pens at election campaigns. Like, mom and her wear this, not that, do your hair like that, use this product. Like, best friends and their endless “You need to [insert fashion whatever for which time nobody ain’t got]”. Like, even Boyfriend has in the past commented on my cellulite. Yeah, you don’t wanna know what I commented on in retaliation. Not even I have so many stretch marks on my legs.

Makes it kinda hard to accept genuine compliments, though. First of all, you never know if a compliment is genuine. What if someone’s pulling a Regina George on you? And compliments always come out wrong. A friend says to me, “Wow, you look really nice today!” and my mind immediately goes to “And how do I look usually, Steve Buscemi with a side of Miss Piggy?!”

I mean, recently I made it a point to not give two flying fucks about anyone’s opinion on my looks, not even the positive ones. Yes, it’s a radical step, but it’s like a cleanse, you know, ridding yourself of all the other voices telling you what you are and what you are not and just focussing on your own. Especially men. I never give another thought to the opinions of men.** Might sound misandrist, but Foucault would tell you they’re the enforcers of the system. Do not perpetuate the system. Ha, I knew I could use that old slut and his Panopticism for something one day!

Of course this also means disregarding the opinions of women on your own body because according to the theory of Panopticism we have all been subconsciously trained since birth to judge ourselves and each other and keep each other in line. That’s why we gossip about other women and tear them and ourselves apart. That’s why we’re being back-stabbing bitches sometimes.

…dammit, Michel, you were right about everything.

So leaving dead French people aside for a moment, what can you do? Know what I do? I listen to my damn self. Do I think I look good today? Do I think my eyebrows are on point? Is my brain playing Uptown Funk when I walk past the mirror? And if not, how can I rise in my own opinion? I’m the one person who sees my body the most, so my feelings on it should be the most important.

And that’s basically the point of this long-ass post. You do you. It’s your damn body. Do something for yourself. Or don’t listen to me, whatever. Have a Star Wars reference, that makes everything better.



*Actually, now that I think about it I’m no longer surprised that I was severely depressed until like two years ago. Shit’s real, man.

**There is reported evidence that some men will literally fuck a picnic table, or a park bench, or a toaster, or an air mattress. Yeah. Doesn’t that make it sound like being deemed fuckable by a man is a lot like being deemed eatable by a bear, given the right level of desperation they’ll eat anything?