We HAVE to let white straight men into the conversation or else we’re all just in an echo-chamber nodding about how liberal and feminist we all are. We already believe in what we’re saying but we need to find a way of addressing feminist issues without making men feel persecuted or excluded because else nothing will ever change.
Have you ever stood on a bridge, with a 40 feet drop, and thought ‘what if I jumped?’. Maybe not. What about this though - you’re driving at 60 down a motorway and suddenly think, ‘I could just swerve this car right now’. No? Maybe it’s less severe than that. Maybe you’ve just been in a silent room and thought, hey, what if I suddenly shout ‘SHIT’ at the top of my voice.
‘There are two types of girls this Halloween’, my newsfeed reliably informs me. Curious, I delve further. Do tell me internet, knower of all things, what are these two types? Well, according to Facebook, one type is a girl who enjoys dressing as a slinky cat, and the other is a girl who enjoys dressing as a hotdog. I think this is meant to mean something? This polarised depiction of girls has an implicit sense of competition - so, who’s the winner?
You stumble into a kitchen at roughly 11 in the morning . Specifically, your kitchen after a night hosting pres. Bottles are strewn on the table, a few half empty cans are on every surface, polystyrene takeaway boxes flap open to present some half eaten cheesy chips. And you? Well let’s not mince words. You feel like crap.
Two years ago, in my first year of University, I went to see a talk by Caitlin Moran. I settled down in my seat, still slightly damp from the drizzle of an October night with her new book, ‘Moranifesto’ perched on my lap. My head tilted to the stage as the lights centred on the silhouette of Moran strolling into the spotlight. Her opening line, although I may not remember this word for word, was something along the lines of: ‘I remember when I was 15 years old, frantically masturbating on the sofa…’.
Candle lit table in an Italian restaurant. The soft glow of the flame creates dappled shadows around our wine glasses - mine, half empty, his, near gone. His hand slowly glides across the table cloth, gently falling on top of my palm. He looks up at me, burning curiosity in his cool eyes, “so”, he says, “tell me about your family?”