Who are you, really?

 

 

Okay. Hold tight, because we’re venturing into my favourite topic.

Who are we?

I do love a bit of psychoanalysis. It’s the question we will explore… forever.

It will never end, and we like to try and exhaust all avenues for as long as we live. There are questions we’ll ask ourselves for the rest of our lives; after all, what is there to do once we’ve found the answers? Self-sabotage, perhaps, so we can start again. Or, more sensibly, create more questions. Find more unexplored areas.

What is the meaning of life? What’s the recipe for success? What is true happiness? How do you heal from heartbreak and trauma? How do you know when it’s love? How do we even define all of these things?

I think most of the difficulty in answering these questions lies in a lack of awareness about the self.

Unless we really know who we are, we can’t truly know where we stand in relation to topics that require introspection and deep understanding of ourselves … and questions like the above do not have universal answers. There is no right or wrong. As the world evolves, the answers change. For some, success is living so comfortably that you never have to shop price low to high. For others, it’s being able to comfortably cry whilst staring into your lover’s eyes; it’s being unable to find the words to truly tell them how much you love them in that moment and that’s the only way your body will let you. And for a handful, it’s living carefree and alone in an art studio with a Wholefoods around the corner.

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[Love.] // Where it all begins

 

Our perception of love begins when we’re kids, only we don’t know it.

Love is normal, the standard against which we’ll later measure every act ever committed; anything anybody does is measured in terms of where it exists on the Love meter. If it makes you happy, it’s a 10. If it hurts, it’s a 1. Burning down trees and using products with palm oil is a lack of love for the Earth and orangutans. Giving to charity is empathy materialised, and empathy is a form of love. Not necessarily for the individual with whom you’re empathising, but a love and understanding for other human beings in general. Or maybe it’s simply a love for your religion; maybe even just no love for Hell.

This is how the meter works in theory, anyway. As you get older, it becomes a lot more complicated and it makes no sense when you love someone who makes you want to shoot your own brains out.

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[Love.] // The Prelude

 

You are so strongly in my purpose bred
That all the world besides methinks they’re dead
– Sonnet 112
x

 

I’ve been wondering how to write about this for the longest time. And I mean the longest time. A lot of my work is tinged with love, or the lack thereof, so why haven’t I said a word on it? I talk about it and I feel it. Hopefully you can feel it when I write about it.

But what is it? What is love?

I’ve had to split this into an indefinite series; I don’t know how many posts it’ll spill over; if it’ll even spill over (it definitely will). I don’t know if I’ll reach a conclusion, but I don’t think there is a conclusion to be reached. I don’t know if it’ll be anything more than waffle, because love is simultaneously the easiest and most difficult thing to talk about.

When I think about love, an indescribable feeling washes over me; the closest I can think of being warmth, but specifically the warmth of an everlasting glow. Sometimes it can feel clinical, but I’ll come to that later.

I think of a colour that I can’t bring to fruition in my mind. The colour I’m thinking of doesn’t exist, but I can feel it. If I had to pick a colour on the known spectrum, maybe it would be a deep red. Wine red. For passion and fierce loyalty. But sometimes it’s yellow, for family and joy. For innocence. It might be white, for purity, untouched by the hues of any colour. Or black, for the endless pit of despair and heartbreak into which it can send you.

It is every shade of every colour because it lives in the crevices of everything around us; it cannot be defined by one single thing. Love is all we have left when everything else in the world disappears.

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(Anti) Feminism, part 3 – The Phenomenon of the ‘Pick-Me’

 

 

Ah yes. We have reached the end of this angry rant with my favourite topic.

Not least because I am, by the standards of Twitter’s feminists, a big fat, giant, massive pick-me.

I don’t believe pick-me exists in the Oxford dictionary, but by and large it refers to a woman who doesn’t hate men (and vice-versa, but I can only speak from the perspective of a straight woman).

You defend men, believe they have feelings and should be looked after the way women are? Pick me! You want to look after your man; you want to show him love, cook for him, and do nice things for him? Absolutely a pick me, disgusting! For shame! You like men for their personality and their character, rather than their money, clothes, possessions etc? Ew, I hope he picks you sis. You don’t want all men to die? On God, we gon’ get someone to pick you.

Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? That’s because it is.

The only anti-pick-me narrative I agree with is that of a woman actively bashing other women for the approval of men. Being snide, bitchy, and unnecessarily rude just to get a few laughs out of men; laughing when a man hurts a woman who has done nothing wrong; supporting an abuser just because you think he’s sexy. Purposely putting other women down and trying to make yourself look better. That’s a real ‘please pick me, I’m different to the other basic bitches. I’m so much cooler and better than them, please pick me, they’re all ugly ogres and I’m so different to the rest; you’ll never find another girl like me, I promise you that. You’ll be thinking about me when you’re with her lol I’m so different, I leave a mark on people.

But obviously, people have watered this down to suit their own agenda, and now pick-me generally refers to a woman who apparently does and says things as a mating call, because we obviously don’t have our own brains, and everything we do in life is solely in the quest to attain male approval. Which is very telling for the people who use the phrase. What a phenomenon.

I want to dissect it and destroy it.

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(Anti) Feminism, part 2 – The OnlyFans Debacle

 

 

Today I want to talk about sex.

Disgusting, no shame, no modesty, horrible, burn me at the stake, send me straight to hell.

No, I want to talk about how sex sells; I want to talk about the objectification of women as perpetuated by… women.

Here we go, a bit of real controversy. Time to talk about 2020 feminism.

I’m gonna come out and say it. 

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(Anti) Feminism, part 1 – Not me

 


Before I start this three-part shitshow, I want to clarify that I am concerned with
Western feminism in this post. Being a brown woman who lives in the UK, I am not a feminist, and I will never be one amongst feminists today. Your struggles are not something that concerns me or my people (in fact, I have no business associating with a group of people who enjoy calling my people ‘oppressed’), and quite frankly I find you ridiculous. I think there are more important things to fight for than having your nipples out on show.

Yes, I am a woman who doesn’t identify as a feminist as we know it. Shock horror, this must mean I hate women, I am self-loathing and I should just die – but only two of those things are true. I believe the last time I ever entertained the idea of supporting feminism was many years ago, when I was much younger, much more naive, and innocently thought all women simply wanted equality with men in every aspect, especially respect. This was before I was spending almost every waking minute on social media, back when all I knew about feminism was through books, novels, and generally studying the plight of women through academia and otherwise. 

But this was also before women were sexually objectifying themselves the way they are now. Before anybody starts to use their favourite twitter term ‘internalised misogyny’, please be aware I do not have any. I am still very aware that men are trash (more on that later). I have no internalised misogyny; I do have a very real, very clear hatred for all idiocy. I don’t care what your gender is, I don’t care what your pronouns are, I don’t care what you have down below. If you’re stupid, you’re stupid. I will call out stupidity, regardless of your gender, the colour of your skin, your sexual orientation, your age, or any other factors that you want to get offended about. None of that is relevant if you’re an idiot, and your stupidity is highlighted by the fact that you wish to find solace in a scapegoat rather than taking accountability for the fact that you’re an idiot because you don’t know how to defend your own idiot points. Idiots. 

But I digress. Read more