The Dumbest Shit I’ve Read on Twitter

I’ve been on Twitter a long time. And in that time I’ve seen a lot of ‘DS’ (dumb shit- not to be confused with the Nintendo DS because I genuinely couldn’t bring myself to say a bad word about Animal Crossing). I thought, in homage to me being away from blogging for so long, I would reminisce over the worst bits that I’ve seen in the meantime on social media, in hope that these would set the bar really low for my future posts.

‘Men cannot do domestic tasks because they are too busy building civilisation’ This was said by a meninist who believed men didn’t have time to participate in childcare, housework, cooking, etc. What he hasn’t realised is that, yeah men might’ve built the modern world, but women invented beer, monopoly and the folding cabinet bed, therefore we’ve built the perfect Friday night.

‘Women can’t be SAS trained. They’ll distract men. It’s biological’ Did you see SAS: Who Dares Wins? Did you watch a woman and a man come joint first without sleeping together? And when they were being interrogated in, like, Morocco, did you see her dramatically undo her ponytail, unveiling luscious Herbal Essence-d locks and apply Mac Velvet Teddy, causing all the spies to stop their highly classified, significant jobs and have a wank over her beauty instead? No. Because not every guy was straight. Not every woman is beautiful. And most importantly, these people are so skilled at doing their jobs so if a human with two lumps of fat on their upper torso and no dick can distract them that easily then I really don’t think they’re qualified to protect the country. Continue reading

Confessions of a Bad Blogger

A few weeks ago I didn’t post. This is now a bit awks because you’re all sat there like soz Jess didn’t even notice you were gone but trust me, I was, and I felt really sad inside. Every Monday for over a year I’ve posted and then on Tuesday I read the comments (which I’m supposed to reply to on Wednesday but always forget), Thursday is promo day, Friday blogger chats, Saturday I have to re-edit because I realise there’s about 8 typos and then Sunday I’m writing the next post. When there was no post I suddenly had nothing to read or promote. I was literally half a girl. However, my lack of commitment did inspire this: Confessions of a Bad Blogger

Snail Speed Replies: I love your comments more than I love most members of my immediate family, they’re so intricate and thoughtful and feminist; I feel like in order to reply to my full capacity (cough cough Jess babe are you trying to make excuses because this really isn’t subtle) I need a good 90 minutes and a cherry bakewell flavoured tea. It’s just a shame that IB students don’t have a spare 90 minutes very often. I will always reply to every reply you just might have to wait a week. Or two. Max.

I Don’t Plan Posts in Advance: I wish I could be the person who rolls out of bed to the sound of WordPress notifications, throws on clothing sent to them for free to review and tends to the bullet journal where they’ve planned every post for the next two centuries while sipping something incredibly romanticised but equally gross like elderflower cordial from their Blogger Of The Year trophy. But I can’t. I used to have some random posted notes with ideas on dotted around my room but that got too risky after my Grandma came to stay and asked “Why do you have PORN PROBLEMS written on your wall?” Thanks Gma, legend as per. Continue reading

Buggles

I’ve been blogging for almost a year now (I realise, upon reflection, 11 months really isn’t that long at all considering most of you were essentially birthed onto a WordPress dashboard but still. I have commitment issues) and there are still so many things I don’t understand. I thought blogging would be all rock up, pick a domain, write some stuff, delete the typos/blasphemy and voila instant internet success. But no. There’s hierarchy and etiquette and advertising and social media and so I thought I’d document it all in a hopefully #relatable post (awks if it’s just me) containing my Blogger Struggles. Or Buggles if you want to feel a bit more video killed the radio star. image

Comment Etiquette: You know that awkward ‘handshake? two kisses? okay this is okay shit is he going in for three?’ uncertainty you get when you meet a stranger- to me comments are like the internet equivalent. You comment on my post so I reply and I know the relationship is solid. Meanwhile life is running smoothly *insert pictures of some baby lambs or mini eggs or something* BAM you reply to my reply and suddenly I’m like woah, do I reply to their reply of my reply? Is that what ‘being nice’ is these days? I just can’t keep up. This is why I’m no good at tennis. Continue reading

Go Burn Your Bridge

A post titled so perfectly that in a single pun it can summarise how I’m about to simultaneously talk about feminism and never get a job at any newspaper. Ever. In fact tbh I might as well forget a career in journalism because I seem to have slagged off everything that’s ever been printed- apart from Elizabeth Wurtzel- and soon I’ll have no other option but to apply for work at Poundland where I can give all my friends a staff discount on the Fruitella and then confuse everyone when I say “that’s 50p please” because darling decimals don’t belong in Poundland. I mean, that’s just like, the rules of feminism. gretch

This past month I’ve been trying to write a 2,000 word essay about the F-word for Newnham College which sounded really easy until I realised Newnham is in Cambridge, as in the Cambridge. Cambridge Cambridge. Upon this realisation I had to cross out all the inappropriate vagina jokes and Fetty Wap references, so now all I’m left with are a few ideas being pushed around my plate like broccoli stems (because realistically no one eats the stems) (except the vegans), however it’s not all bad. In the absence of words, I’ve done lots of research, read plenty of articles and painfully scrolled through thousands of comments, until I realised: newspapers hate feminists. I wrote a post similar to this before about the general public but I didn’t realise the people bringing up factual news would fall the same way. Continue reading

New Year Old You

It’s 2016 and, despite the fact numerical time doesn’t really exist and therefore we’re celebrating what is essentially our own invention, for many people a new year can be the perfect kick up the bum to tidy desk drawers, start a YouTube channel or steer their lives in a different direction. Most of us will have at least some kind of resolution, whether that be a huge career goal or a minor self-improvement, and usually these are harmless. But what about when they’re not? What happens when you realise NYE is a time for everyone to make unrealistic, overoptimistic resolutions and then start a Crunchie binge on 5th January to distract themselves from the fact they’ve failed to avoid the inevitable, turning their ‘Body Posi 2016’ into the biggest queue for Slimming World that the Guinness Book Of World Records has ever seen?

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Cheeky Crunchie Binge

 

Apparently New Year has become the absolutely perfect excuse to constantly move the milestone of happiness; phrases like ‘I will be happy when…’ or ‘Happiness will come after…’ are ruined once the goal is achieved and something else crops up, pushing satisfaction further and further away. Suddenly everyone realises that this year they haven’t been rich/pretty/skinny/successful enough, that despite all the super smiley selfies, A* a levels and holidays to Greek islands that no one can pronounce, they’re just not happy. On the 31st December we reduce all the ups and downs of a whole year into a tragedy pageant of which we conclude that we need to be better. And how do we find out how to be better? The internet. Continue reading

Happy Nudes Year

Just when I thought we’d made it through 2015 without too much interruption from the meninists of the world, I am introduced to someone expecting me to wish him a happy nudes year. It got me thinking about how, despite most of us seeing similar screenshots on Buzzfeed and Tumblr, you never expect the sassy feminist replies to be coming from you. So a rather unplanned addition to the blog this week: The Many Stages of Social Media Misogyny

The preparation: Meninists could appear at any time and, although it feels weird essentially bulling people you’ve never met in order to defend yourself, sometimes you’ve just got to grab yourself a glass of soya milk, readjust your bra straps and woman up. (If that fails to empower you, maybe do some Sudoku puzzles to warm up your brain or something.)

The bit where you check they’re not a troll: This is the part where you manically scroll through their Twitter feed to make sure they’re at least vaguely sane; in this case he’d retweeted some we-would-rather-gauge-our-eyes-out-than-have-Trump-as-President campaign so I thought he was a safe zone, especially because it started with him asking me about feminism. Even if you come to wrong conclusion (which, spoiler alert, you probably will) it always feels better to check.

The bit where it suddenly gets weird:

Continue reading