Sunday, October 8
The coffee shop dude has been very insistent, making sure that the new girl is good at making coffee. On the first day of her arrival he asked me, quite seriously, to ‘do him a favour’ and ‘tell me what you think of the coffee she makes’. I promised that I would, and the next day when I arrived he said ‘well, you’re back, that’s a good sign’. Like he had been genuinely concerned that I would not be coming back because this girl made such a terrible cup of coffee.
So, I have a question. When you’re in front of one of those machines, that has a button for grinding up the beans, and little scoop thing that you tap the ground beans into and then you stick it in the thing and press a button… Where is there room for variation? At what point exactly would you fuck up a cup of coffee to the point that someone would not return?
I must admit, I miss ol’ thunder thighs and his friendly banter. I wonder where he is now.
I think feminism has a branding problem. Imagine that you were going to buy a pair of shoes, but you couldn’t be sure if those shoes were going to be super-comfy, or have have a layer of spikes on the inside that would pierce your foot-flesh.
You would be a bit weary about interacting with the shoes.
And so it is with feminists. You meet someone that says they’re a feminist and you’re going to be dealing with one of these:
- Those that want no sexism and would much rather equal opportunity. The equalists.
- Those that are angry that sexism has existed and continues to exist and want payback. The retributionists.
The retributionists (you will often hear them say things like manspreading and mansplaining) have sullied the good name of feminism — they’ve trashed the brand.
So whether you like it or not, a ‘feminist’ is now synonymous with a ‘pain in the ass’. This is not fair, nor correct. It is just reality.
But I don’t think the ruination of the word ‘feminism’ is such a problem, because we should be pretty much finished with it anyway.
It has served its purpose. There’s no laws left to change, everyone gets to vote, drive a car, own land etc. Really, there’s nothing left to do.
Sure there’s sexist people left, but they’re not listening to anyone, so all that awareness raising is really just pissing in the wind.
And sure, there’s still unconscious biases that can be changed, but that’s not limited to gender and flows both ways, so we should be working on it, but not under the purview of feminism.
Not coherent thoughts, just some things that have been on my mind.
In my apartment block, every floor has a bin room. This is a room for people to put their recyclables and shove their rubbish down a chute. The room usually smells, but even when it doesn’t, I know that there’s rubbish particles in the air that I don’t want in my body. So, naturally, I don’t breathe while in this room.
Sitting still, on the couch, after a bit of heavy breathing, I can hold my breath for 2 minutes before I pass out (the aim isn’t to hold it until you don’t think you can hold it anymore. The aim is to pass out from oxygen starvation/carbon dioxide poisoning.)
For whatever reason, I either can’t last 2 minutes in the bin room, or time flies when you’re dumping rubbish, but I often reach the point of passing out and need to take a breath.
The point to this: if one day I am found on the floor of my bin room with a cracked skull in a pool of my own blood, it’s because I tried to hold my breath for too long and passed out.
Fun fact, when you’re holding your breath and you feel that feeling that you really need to breathe, that’s not actually the lack of oxygen, it’s your body’s reaction to carbon dioxide build up. At that point, just start breathing out steadily and that feeling will go away.
This sign was next to the lift. I took a picture and had the comment already planned “I’m such a daredevil, the lift had this sign but I got in anyway”.
The the lift arrived, I could hear it coming, sounding like a steam train without wheels scraping along the walls of the lift shaft. The doors jerked open and nope I am not getting in that thing. I gingerly reached in and stabbed at one of the car park buttons to get the thing away from me.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid of dying, I’m afraid of getting stuck and having to do a poo in a lift. Or more specifically, I fear the eye contact with the rescue crew as they pry open the doors and realise that shit went down.
Sammy the cat just did a surprise spew. I can tell it was a surprise because it was in his food bowl, and no one does that on purpose. I guess unless he’s trying to send a message. Hmm, maybe next time I’m at a restaurant and I don’t like my meal, I will simply vomit on the plate and have it returned to the chef, ‘with my compliments’.
I apologise for all the gross bodily things in today’s post.