Gals, V-day is fast approaching. Your hot date is right around the corner and as you reach for the lipstick, it’s time to ask yourself the important question: what vibe am I giving off tonight??
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A lot of people don’t actually know this, but we all have the same 24 hours in a day, so use those hours wisely! Lucky for you, here’s your guaranteed guide to help you disgusting peasants be a totally girl boss babe. Follow this 5 step guide, and you too can enjoy such luxuries and The Influencer Sofa, mid-lockdown “work” trips to Dubai and complaining about Italian food.
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If Sex and the City has done anything right in the past, it’s been to show us that women still have sex beyond menopause, and enjoy it. No, there’s something else going on with the new, sexless Sex and the City. And it has to do with masculinity.
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I’ll be listening to Christmas carols, slowly unpacking our decorations, making gingerbread houses, and snuggling in with blankets and tea for those nights that start at 5:45 these days to watch some old classics for the next 8 weeks, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.
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People had pretty soon decided that there wasn’t much else worth exploring in the vast empty stretch of space beyond, which people called the Night, and attention had moved elsewhere. Not for the first time, Tallis groaned inwardly and forced themself to remember that they were lucky to still be employed by the Librarians’ Guild at all after the unfortunate Charlotte Brontë incident. This posting was just something they were going to have to endure for a while.
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Unfortunately for us, BNPL schemes have hit on the perfect nerve for young people in our current society. They enhance the addictive “want it right now” culture that has been slowly baked into us through the rise of conglomerates such as Amazon (boo hiss), but take it one step further.
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How many people have I written about in a spat of scorched earth? How many memories have I molded, twisted, and tossed into a work barely disguised to fit my narrative? Could I risk that, with my spouse, now, our little life together, my healing so important to me?
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The flâneur has the capacity to be reinvented.
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There is only an arm’s length between us,
enough to see straight into your brown eyes.
A poem about self-sabotage and jealousy.
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Over a year ago, comedian and wife guy Alec Robbins released his smash hit comic Mr Boop, where he tells the factual tale of his life being married to Betty Boop – yes, that Betty Boop. A new panel was released daily, and in a pandemic haze, I was obsessed. Each day we’d wait with bated breath for a new issue. Did he still love his wife? Oh, thank goodness, he did. What started off as a silly comic about a guy who was really into his wife turned into a feminist horror about narratives, control and expectations.
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The room is smokey, everything is in black and white, and suddenly we’re all speaking in a transatlantic accent. That could only mean one thing: a new season of You Must Remember This.
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In learning the history of the “afterlives” of public women, I have come to fear my own death. I fear the manipulation of my corpse as a means to end Womanhood. I fear that people will champion their desires and use my body to achieve them after my death, and fear that they do it now, while I am still breathing.
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Now I could write a nuanced article about how violence is deemed less inappropriate than female gratification on screen, or I could talk about how Hollywood has become so monopolised that it’s accidentally reverted back to the virtuous and sexless ways of the Hays code, but instead, I’m going to write a shitpost ranking the oral aptitude of all the Batmen, because apparently, I’m now the Boshemia Superhero correspondent?
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We eventually found ourselves back in Echo Park—broke, lonely, and gay. As these codependent friendships go, we were destined for an end, or a pause. Night after night of drinking and feeling like losers started to wear on us.
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Over the past decade or so, superheroes have only gotten bigger and bigger - this has just so happened to coincide with the rise of body dysmorphia in men. There is an increased pressure for men to have washboard abs, have basically no body fat and have a perfect V-shaped body; when the majority of media features men who look like action dolls, it makes sense that men are conditioned to believe that this is how they should look.
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Fifty-five days into the first UK coronavirus lockdown, I ended my relationship of almost six years. My ex said to me, “I think you absolutely made me a better person. I’m not sure I did the same for you.” I think that was his way of apologising.
As I write this, there’s a gas shortage in North Carolina. Maybe you’ve heard about it. A pipeline hack led to panic buying and hoarding. Tonight, someone tweeted that 78% of gas stations in North Carolina are out of gas, the worst of any state right now.
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The ambient fear of my grandmother’s inevitable death hung over me like deep summer humidity. I knew from a young age how precious our time together was, how fraught the timeline, how scarce the memories would someday be. And all these years later, I still grasp at silhouettes of that summer and they slip through my fingers like rain.
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Taylor Swift taught me how to talk about differing-gender relationships long enough to get out of my hometown, and later, my college town, a script that allowed me to appear authentic even as I was struggling to articulate, internally, what I wanted out of my life. And for that, I love her.
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