To the Patriarchy, who is a hater

I know I’m not supposed to think any of the below, let alone say it out loud, but fuck you patriarchy, fuck you!

My little body is just wonderful. I love her. For the last little while I have been treating her super nicely, feeding her vitamins and minerals she needs, making hot breakfasts in winter with mushrooms and tomatoes and sauerkraut in them. I’ve been taking my little legs to the gym to pedal hard and fast, to sweat out the frustrations of the day that stop my poor brain from sleeping. My little legs are getting strong. My head feels clear.

Sometimes my body hates me for it, because it is cold and bed is warm. Because those first few pedals are harder than the ones that follow coz of the achy muscles. We get through it not because my little legs deserve to be punished but because those muscles actually secretly love getting strong.

Sometimes I stay in bed. That’s fine too. Being good to your body is about resting when you need to rest, I think.

The Patriarchy is all “but Guilt and Despair! And you ate that thing and now your hard work is all gone and you can’t talk about how hard you worked because you failed that one time! You’re never going to be able to go any faster that this! And your legs still have bits that wobble when you pedal really hard! Don’t you know how silly you look?”

And I’m all, “fuck you, dude.”

To people who speak louder than necessary in libraries

hey you noisy bastards: everyone else here does not care about your plans for the weekend or how big your last weekend was or what so and so said about the no doubt important things that make up your life. there’s this phenomenon with humans where instead of going and getting to know hot strangers we decide to speak loudly at some poor unsuspecting person (who thinks they are playing the role of friend, but are really playing the role of something to talk loudly at), in the vicinity of the hot stranger we can see but cannot talk to because they are a stranger. we decide to speak loudly about things that we think make us sound cool, like weekend plans, and then we laugh loudly, like we have the sort of life that a hot stranger should want to be a part of. the intended outcome of this performance is that the hot stranger re-evaluates their life choices up till now, dumps their hot partner via text (“sorry, its over, i’ve fallen in love with a loud person in the library who seems to have a sense of humour and some weekend plans”) and makes themselves available to the loudest person, stat. actual reality: best you can hope for is smouldering eye contact and a small smiles exchanged over several weeks in a library setting, culminating in seeing them at the pub and perhaps saying hello. much more likely: the other people in the library hate you.

To people who don’t like The National

(Firstly, to people who haven’t heard of/heard The National: go and listen to High Violet. I’ll wait.)

What do you mean, you don’t like The National? What kind of monster are you? Have you no human feelings in your tiny body?

If you are an alien, I am very sorry; of course you have no human feelings. But you should still get a bit of The National’s discography all up in your ears, or whatever alien appendages you have for listening with. You’ll note on immediate listen a heightened sense of the wide and beautiful world, with hints of philosophy and melancholy. There be feels here, aliens. Such feels.

People who don’t care for it: get out of my way. What, are you scared of the depths of your own soul? Does the thought of artists sharing their talent leave you cold? Don’t you like music? Don’t you know how to live?

Some people will tell you we’re all allowed to like different music, and that the very scope of it is what makes for such an interesting life. To these people I say, yeah sure, but if you don’t like The National we can’t ever be more than acquaintances. Friendly acquaintances at best.

Droppin’ truth bombs and musical ultimatums on the daily: not sorry.