Always Greener on the Other….

Musings/Rants, Uncategorized

Two years ago, I took a semester off NYU to undergo a kidney transplant surgery. The surgery and recovery process took only about five weeks. The rest of those six months I spent in waiting. Waiting for the hospital to call and set up an appointment. Waiting while my friends nabbed exciting internships. Waiting for something to do, an inspiration to hit. Weeks passed and nothing hit. Losing the motivation to learn, write, or even binge-watch Netflix shows, I was quickly spiraling into something akin to nihilism. 

What it was, of course, was just laziness, a millennial malaise that’s haunted me for the better part of the last 10 years. At school, I’ve had friends and homework as powerful antidotes; lectures and essays have egged me toward specific goals. Back at home in Irvine, the archetypal Californian suburb, I was a free agent and a prisoner to my thoughts, which were shrouded by doubts and hopelessness. Rather than brainstorming activities to occupy my time at the present–when I had an abundance of it–I lamented all the missed opportunities that awaited me at school, 3000 miles away. I entertained a remarkably narcissistic idea that if I could just crawl back to Manhattan, straight As and new friends and internships and leadership roles would land in my lap–I just need to get close enough.

More out of desperation than ingenuity, I decided to start a blog. I came to that decision abruptly, while feasting on an apple and Game of Thrones. My first sentence? “To be honest, I’ve just about given up on starting a blog.” Halfway through the post, I realized why I had put off the endeavor for so long: I was scared no one was going to read it because I was either too boring a person or too mediocre a writer. I rambled some more about my low self-esteem and stereotypical teenage hobbies. As I kept writing, fingers flying across the keyboard as thoughts tumbled behind, I came to some bizarre conclusions. That we are all boring. That rather than giving you lemons, life is a lemon. That how hard you squeeze that lemon determines how much happiness and meaning you extract from mundane occurrences. In ranting about my insecurities, I slowly forgot about them. That was my “eureka” moment, and the title of the post. Why did I decide to publish this garbage of a post? Because, “Call me vain if you want, but I wasn’t going to let this epiphany go to waste.”

And I didn’t. I wrote almost everyday of the next four months I spent waiting. I continued writing after I returned to NYU. I’ve now amassed more than 2000 followers–1990 more than I’d expected to get. This is the first post I’ve published in almost a year, and it’s just a repost of an essay response to a fellowship application. I prompt asked me to write about a time I took the initiative to organize/start something, and I’m not sure this post answered that question at all. It doesn’t matter, though, because it got me thinking about a period of my life that’s at once so crucial and so painful. A time that I’ve rarely talked to anyone about, a time I’m scared of confronting. A lot of the indifference I feel toward life germinated during this time–the month or so before I started blogging.   

I’ve been absent for so long that I sometimes forget I even have a blog. I’m sure I’ll post again, but I’m not sure when. Graduation is less than two months away, and I don’t know if I’ll have any time to write after that. What I can say for certain is that blogging always makes me feel better, just a little more connected and invested in the forces around me. It pulled 19-year-old me out of that period of loneliness. That’s something I don’t think anything else would have been able to do.

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A Love Letter to Calories

Musings/Rants

I randomly found this passage in my notepad. I don’t remember how it came about–it must have been for some dumbass application. Anyway, I’m posting it because it’s been too long again and I still can’t come up with anything new.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was born in China but moved to the mystical land of New Zealand when I turned nine. It’s a place where sheep roam freely, people are sweet but phony, and the most average coffee shits on the best espresso you can find in NYC. It’s the kind of town you dream of escaping while you live there but miss terribly once you leave.

My whole life there–living in resentment, departing in glee, reflecting with fondness – is how I developed my voice as a writer–curious and humorous, yet somehow always tinged with nostalgia. Even though I’m finally living in the city of my dreams, exploring sites and restaurants in every corner of the five boroughs (nah, just Manhattan, to be completely honest), I still think about that mince and cheese pie from Browns Bay and that slice of pavlova I had at a bakery that probably no longer exists.

I think food evokes our most visceral memories. If our existence is indeed highlighted by specific impressions, then food is the chain that connects all the dots in life and puts everything into perspective. How did the apple tarts that doused you with euphoria in childhood become an unbearable source of grief in adulthood? How did you ever come to crave coffee when you hated it with a passion as a kid? How are you going to look at strawberry shortcakes (lol) after you rejected the dude who stuffed an engagement ring in one?

Eating doesn’t inspire such introspection. When you’re ravenous, you’ll inhale anything you see, and when you’re chewing, you see only two categories of food–the disgusting and the phenomenal. Everything that’s not disgusting is phenomenal. You’re not really that hungry if you’re lucid enough to critique and analyze your food. Truth is, you don’t grasp the philosophical significance of what you shove into your mouth until you’re done digesting it. Introspection happens in retrospect.

How was a 13-year-old supposed to know that the moment he got tired of hot chocolate would mark the end of the beginning of his life? How was he supposed to know that it would all go downhill as he transitioned from mochas to lattes to espressos? Would I still enjoy that $20 burger when I can scarcely afford to pay rent after I graduate and move out? Food is the reckless, instantaneous decisions we make that would come to make sense in hindsight.

Food is life, quite literally.

My 2 Cents On Pronouns

Musings/Rants

 


I generally don’t use YouTube as a focal point of think pieces, but the video I just watched is so eye-opening that I had to jot down my thoughts.

It’s a three minute Youtube video posted by Cut Vid, a channel reminiscent of an indie Buzzfeed – less revered, more refined. In the video, a group of transgender people talk about what pronouns mean to them. They start with one word–“identity,””choice,” “liberty,” then elaborate with some pretty amazing analyses. The group is as diverse as it gets, with Caucasians, AAs, Latinos, and Asians of all ages. The answers drown in a storm of emotions, some in pain and disillusionment, others defiance and pride.

The two responses that carved the deepest impressions on my mind are from two middle-aged, white transgender women. In a coarse, masculine voice, the first said she see pronouns as a vocal validation of her identity and, more importantly, a symbol of sovereignty.

“If anything I’d be more hung-up on the need some people feel to attach ‘preferred,'” she says. “My pronouns are not preferred. They just are. My gender is not a desire that I have or a wish or something. It’s who I am. It’s just part of me.”

That response raises an issue, a question, we unconsciously dismiss: why are pronouns, a part of speech exclusively associated with sexuality and identity, regarded as a preference rather than a force of nature when we talk to or about transgender people? Why is it that, as a society that has grown so much scientifically, politically, and socially, we still see transsexuality as the revolting exchange of sex organs rather than a displaced soul’s yearning for a body, a home, it can never have? Preference implies choice. And with regard to sexuality, either assigned by birth or brain, there isn’t one.

Another response that grabbed me was the closing one. “You better get them right,” is how she sees pronouns. Yet the importance of pronouns rests not in sight but in respect.

“What’s more important: how you see me, or respecting how I see me?”

To the cis population, pronouns only take an offensive turn when someone identifies us in a different way from the way society does. That’s confusing, isn’t it? Think of it this way: you look, talk, act like a dude, you’ve been referred to as a “he” and a “him” your whole life, then this asshole comes along and calls you a “stupid bitch” because, I don’t know, you refused to spilt coffee on his shirt or something. That’s offensive to you because, what the fuck, you look nothing like a “female dog,” right? Maybe that’s a bad example, but my point is that cis people like me never had to deal with two perceptions of one identity. Society and I use the same lens when when looking at me. You’d never ask a cis person, “Do you prefer to be a ‘she’ or a ‘he’ today?” Because you know there can only be one answer, right? But what happens when the body you’re born into and the body you want to be born into fight for dominance in the mapping of your identity? What if both voices are legitimate in the eyes of society? You need pronouns to settle that conflict.

The disparity in the significance of pronouns between the cis and trans communities underscores the, perhaps unconscious, linguistic privilege we have developed as the prevalent gender identity. We don’t realize, having been fortunate enough to be born in a body we belong to, just how liberating and validating a simple part of speech can be.

Pronouns radiate a sense of selfhood and certainty for a group of people that knows none. When identity and appearance clash and struggle, pronouns are the torch that melts them from antonyms into synonyms, reins into wings.

A Torrential Downpour of Bullshit

Musings/Rants

I haven’t written in a long time and I’m very rusty. The heat here in New York is killing my brain cells. Then this morning Zeus got horny as shit and decided to give the clouds a good, hard pounding and like the obedient little maiden she is, the clouds parted her slender, fluffy legs and with several loud ecstatic moans, let out an explosion of angry fluids that has lasted for four hours now.

I am currently drenched in that fluid. I’m a slimy, sticky, sweaty slug. My shirt is clinging to my bra and my hair smells like pissed-on seaweed in the bottom of a highly polluted portion of the South China Sea. It’s appalling, but I couldn’t care less. I love rain in all its charming and unappealing moods. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. My soul needed cleansing. I’ve realized that I’m a horrible person who does questionable things and has the audacity to feel guilty about it but not the will to change anything. Walking through rain does not by any means remake my character or alleviate my rarely-existent guilt. It simply warms me up to it.

The one quality a writer needs to have is empathy. Every good writer has it. Every person has it to a certain degree. You can be a hypocrite, like myself, but you have to be able to react emotionally to people’s actions. Maybe you’re an alcoholic who abhors other alcoholics. Maybe you’re a slut who slut-shames. Maybe you hate cliches but has the full collection of Nick Sparks novels stacked like porno under your bed. You don’t have to be morally upright as long as you can sympathize with people’s motives and ultimately understand with their deeds.

But is it wrong to sympathize with some tragedies more than others? Is it possible to react insensitively to happenings that sadden you? Almost a year ago, I bawled my eyes out upon hearing about the Charlie Hebdo shooting. I sobbed as hard at the end of Brokeback Mountain as I did while I was reading Jennifer Gonnerman’s New Yorker piece on Kalief Browder. I even shed a few tears after Djokovic lost his 3rd French Open Final. I didn’t shed a single tear about the Charleston massacre, the Yulin Dog Meat Festival, or the now countless ISIS orchestrated casualties.

Why? Because I’m a typically insensitive, pop-culture obsessed, spoilt, heinous member of the Millenials. Because I obviously don’t give a shit about political crises and communal tragedies and flawed cultural attitudes and racial binaries that threaten to destroy the world as we know it for good. My ignorance is going to send this planet straight into Satan’s gaping, salivating jaws and aren’t I just ecstatic about it. Jimmy Kimmel was criticized for tearing up about the murder of Cecil the Lion but not about any of the things I didn’t lose a tear on. I can carry on sniffing about unimportant shit without being shat on because no one knows or gives a shit about me. Too bad that’s not the case for Jimmy.

I don’t send my mom an “I love you” text everyday even though she’s one of the two people I love most in the world. I don’t cry about every single thing that makes me incredibly, incredibly sad otherwise it’ll be niagara falls every time I think about my future or my face. I don’t decide what or who I’m attracted to. So what if sports happen to move me more than global news does? It doesn’t mean I’m not appalled by what I read, and it doesn’t mean I don’t care about it, otherwise I wouldn’t fucking read it, would I?

Thing is, and we often forget it, just because other people have it worse does not mean we don’t have it bad. Pain is relative, to that of others as well as our own. Empathy is a beautiful thing. No one should feel guilty for understanding one kind of pain but not another. You’re not slighting anybody else when you devote all your energy to one point of interest.

At least you care about another human being, and that’s not a truth that everyone has a claim on.

What am I Even Saying

Musings/Rants

You know what’s the most frequently asked question in my life?

“Why are you so emo?”

It comes in several different forms: “Why are you so angsty?” “Why are you always so mad?” “Why do you never smile?”

The answer is very simple: smiling is painful. It literally hurts my face to smile more than a minute straight, even when I’m having a good time around people I like. Who the hell decided to make curved lips on full stretch the universal expression of happiness? It’s physically exhausting, like holding a coffee mug in your palm for an extended period of time. But some people can smile for hours on end like their jaws were born ajar. I used to think those people were phony as fuck until I got to know a few of them and discovered that they’re the sweetest people ever. That’s when I realized that I’m the phony one, baring my teeth like a fucking vampire when all I wanted to do was curl up in my bed and cry. And it made me wonder: are introverts just inherently more depressed and cynical than extroverts?

That’s a difficult question to answer because most introverts are camouflaged among extroverts. We all lie somewhere on the introvert-extrovert continuum, and the more heavily you lean toward the introvert side of the spectrum the more excessively you have to lie. Pretending to be outgoing and outspoken people has become our defense mechanism. Obviously some of us are better at lying than others. I suck at lying. I drop my smile when it gets even slightly unbearable. I stop socializing with people as soon as I detect the emergence of an headache. I flow in and out of my own reality when conversations get awkward. I retreat back to solitude the first chance I get. The longer I dwell in my own head the more depressed I get. So if all introverts are like me then yes, maybe we’re just a bleak species. But I can rarely distinguish the hidden introverts in a sea of extroverts.

Amazingly, even I have managed to fool some very intelligent people. A classmate said she didn’t believe I was an introvert. A relative complained that I was “too gregarious.” If an atypically shy introvert like I can convince people that I’m “too gregarious,” imagine what normal, less awkward introverts could do. Regardless of how good a liar an introvert may be, I’m sure we’re all sick of putting on a bloody mask all the damn time.

Sometimes I just want to start over. I’m not talking about going back to a particular moment in my life. I don’t want to rewind the clock because I don’t need more regrets gnawing at my messed up mind. I just want to be in a different place, like Budapest or something, with a different name, preferably something asexual like Alex or Taylor or Jaime. I’d reset, find my place in new surroundings, among people who can never unearth my past transgressions. As much as I love some people in my life right now, there are just too many others I can no longer deal with. Remember how Forest said life is like a box of chocolates? For me it feels more like a box of Bean Boozled jelly beans. You know, the ones containing both nasty and yummy flavors, except my box is 80% the former, so I’d get three boogers every time I get a strawberry.

Anyway, I’m well aware that life isn’t all rainbows and butterflies and sometimes it’s compromise that moves us along (lol thanks Maroon 5). I know it’s mostly my own fault that I’m so unhappy with myself, and I know that I can fix my situation without ditching everything I’ve come to know. I also think fate is bullshit. Your life’s not gonna be some perfectly structured skyline with proportionally distributed peaks and troughs, interrupted by occasional periods of dullness. Who knows? Maybe my life will turn out to be some downward sloping curve that gets steeper as time goes on.

But right now it isn’t. It doesn’t have to be. As I said before, I don’t know how many of you out there are introverts going through the same identity/life crisis I am, but if you’re reading this then this next part is for you too. Maybe self-pity and self-doubt is something we’ll always have to deal with, but we will work through it and it will get easier. And here’s a crazy thought: maybe we need that pang of self-pity and self-doubt to remind us of who we really are. Lying is a skill that can be improved, even perfected, through practice. The more we pretend to be the extroverted, outspoken individuals this fucked up society pressures us to be, the more we’ll be convinced that that’s who we were made to be. We’ll start to believe that introversion was an illness that we have finally cured.

And that’s absolute bullshit. It took me almost twenty years to stop hating my preference for self-reflection over social interaction. Introversion is not a problem. It’s a personality trait that’s every bit as beautiful and important as extroversion. It may not thrive in this stupid 21st Century world, but it needs to exist.

Worlds Apart

Musings/Rants, Writing

My titles have gotten progressively dumber over time. I apologize for that. If I ever write a book I’ll probably have to improve on that. Oh well, don’t judge a book by its cover, amiright?

Anyway, I briefly mentioned in my last post my discomfort with showing my blog to people I know, and I’d just like to explain that a bit more. It has nothing to do with the possible backlash or indifference. I’m used to both of that, especially from friends. If indifference is what I will receive then I’d be more than willing to share this blog on Facebook. A reaction is what I’m nervous about.

Imagine wearing a skanky dress to a club in, say, Ecuador or somewhere far and exotic. It’s miles removed from all the judgmental assholes back home. You feel free and loose for the first time in years. You flirt with everyone and drink everything that smells like it can fuck you over. You’re happier than perhaps you’ve ever been. And you just don’t give a shit because you know no one’s gonna treat you any differently after tonight.

What an awful analogy, but that’s exactly how I feel with about blogging. It’s like wearing a thong in a club and knowing that no matter how many lap dances I give my life in the real world is still going to be the same. You know, holding a secret identity with no strings attached.

Why do I care so much? Don’t I trust my friends or family? Honestly, I’m not sure. Some of them, some of the time, absolutely. But once I show them my blog – all these darkest, truest thoughts I’ve ever had – I’m not gonna be same. I’m not going to write without reservations. I’m going to be haunted by dumbass questions that I just don’t want to care about. What will they think if I say this? Will they be okay if I say I’ve never agreed with them on this thing? What if she thinks I’m attacking her? These are bullshit problems I have to deal with in real life. And the blogosphere is a much simpler, quieter, happier world. It’s a place where I can just write in peace and discover the person I want to be.

I don’t want to censor myself for other people’s sake. That’s not what good writers do. They may be sensitive to public response but they know it’s less valuable than being true to their visions. I’m not there yet. Maybe when I get there I’ll be able to fuse these two worlds and reveal my most private thoughts to the people I consider most important to me.

Yay May

Musings/Rants

Hi. I’m going to crash in about 29 seconds so this will be a quick post. May is always the last month of the school year, so in about two weeks I’ll be essentially a junior. Half of my college career has come and gone. I can’t even begin to describe the aching emptiness that realization stirs up in my heart. I’m more than happy with the strides I’ve made this semester, socially, emotionally, and professionally…but whenever I look back I just can’t stop wondering how much better my life would be right now had I made different decisions, had I been courageous enough to trust my gut. Regrets are such a bitch to deal with. Yes they help you reflect and mature, but honestly I’d go back to being that retarded immature kid if I could roll back the seconds and erase some booby tracks on my road map. I don’t care about lessons. I just want those years back.

You know how people always say mistakes and regrets teach you shit? That with them you’ll be a better, more complete person? So rather than loathing them you should appreciate them? But I just don’t, you know? Whenever I reminisce on my regrets (which I guarantee you is a lot of the fucking time), I don’t think about the lessons they’ve taught me. I think about the things I should have and could have done instead but will never be able to because time doesn’t rotate counterclockwise.

Yeah well I’m still crying over spilled milk. Can’t help it.

Disillusionment, Love Potions, and that Obsession with the Unattainable

Musings/Rants, Relationships and Shit

So I just read this from a NY Times article:

“A few months ago, I read several articles touting the health benefits of writing in a deeply personal way. Studies had shown that writing introspectively on a regular basis can lead to lowered blood pressure, improved liver function and even the accelerated healing of postoperative wounds. The study’s subjects had been told to write for short periods each day about turbulent emotional experiences.”

Interesting. I know from experience that writing in a personal, introspective way can exorcise the darkest of demons, but I didn’t know it has been confirmed by science. That’s encouraging, I guess, because part of me thinks it’s kind of toxic to ponder so deeply and frequently on all the bizarre and bleak truths of life. ANYWAY. That was a passage from the Times’ Modern Love section, which features some of the best essays I have ever read. 1500 words, packed with the optimism of finding love, the relief of losing it, the joys and misery of fighting through it. And those stories – bitter, furious, grateful, and so, so raw – just made me realize that I’d never been in love and never felt anything nearly as beautiful or devastating as they have.

Is that a terrible thing to say? I sure feel a bit guilty writing it down, considering that I’ve had memories and experiences that warranted those feelings. Deserved them. Demanded them, even. But everything is relative, and compared to people who wrote those stories, I really don’t know anything. I thought I did. I thought I knew what love is, how it feels like, and what it could do, but the problem is just you don’t see shit when you’re in the middle of it. It’s hard to know that you’re letting staccato bursts of joy overtake your ability to see how glaringly toxic your relationship really is. And maybe that’s a good thing, because I know that the best is still ahead of me.

Assuming that everyone has some epic love story written into their palm lines ofc. I’m not sure we all do. We speculate on the future with a dizzying mix of dread and excitement. They’re so closely interwoven that it’s hard to define one without mentioning the other. And with them there’s always uncertainty. Am I going to get into Yale? Am I going to make it into the music industry? Am I going to get knocked over by a scooter

Yet when it comes to love, questions don’t start with “am I going to.” Instead you get the 5Ws. What do you look for in a guy/girl? Where do you want to get married at? What kind of person do you see yourself with? Who can make you happy? 

They’re not bad questions, but what right do we have to feel so sure that love is meant for everyone? It’s not even about finding the Harry to your Sally. What if some of us never meet anyone, never fall in love, never know what it feels like to hate someone so fucking much that you’d shove a champagne bottle up your ass and fake your own murder just to ruin his life (yeah, my inner Amy Dunne’s back)? What if we really do die alone?

If that’s the case, do we only have ourselves to blame? Is it because we’re too shallow or too idealistic or too indifferent? It’d be easier if that’s the case because at least we have control over our flaws. I don’t believe it’s all about us. It takes a lot to foster connection and turn spark into fire. Circumstances have to work with you, chance has to work with you, people have to work with you. Not everyone can get all three on his/her side. I certainly can’t. Maybe that’s because I’m awkward as fuck and freak out every time I have to socialize with people.

I’m not saying I’ve given up on pursuing that intoxicating whirlwind romance that everyone should experience at least once per lifetime. I’m going to chase it, and I’m going to believe that it’s still in the cards for me because that’s pretty much all we have. Chasing is living. That briefest moment just before yearning becomes fulfillment is pure euphoria.

But I don’t expect it to happen. I just hope it does.

Why I Don’t Want to Turn 20

Musings/Rants

It’s a week till my 20th birthday. I wish those seven days could stretch on for seven years. I don’t want to be 20. It nauseated me to think that in seven days I’ll have to start saying, “I’m 20” instead of “I’m 19.” I love being 19. I want to be 19 forever. I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with 19 but I do know why I don’t want to be 20: I don’t want to stop making excuses.

I originally made a list of 10 reasons I’m afraid to turn 20, but none of them are remotely funny so I just scrapped the whole thing. I think this mini existential crisis I’ve been experiencing over the past three days has drained every last ounce of my creative energy. Right now I’m just a boring, empty shell of the vastly fascinating person I usually am. Lol. I think I’m having an identity crisis because everything is just happening way too fast. Besides all the obvious perks of being a teenager – blaming everything on hormones, getting a multitude of second chances that you don’t deserve, listening to shitty music without anyone questioning your sanity – I’m going to miss the sense of stability I’ve settled into over the last six years. The constant, suffocating sense of disappointment directed at us from all angles, our penchant for making the same mistake two billion times over, our inability to choose the right path even though we know exactly what it is. And temptation, the one thing we never fail to fall for.

The beauty of being a teenager is that your actions are self-explanatory. By virtue of hovering anywhere between 13 to 19, you’re expected to be an absolute moron. When you smoked the wrong shit or slept with the wrong guy, you can just say you’re a moronic, hormonal teenager and after some grounding and some yelling and possibly some crying you’ll be forgiven because, after all, what you did was expectedYou lived up to your expectations, congratulations. And I like that. I like having people place bets on when I’m gonna pull the next stupid shit I’ve got on my agenda. I like people expecting me to almost kill myself and jam my future in the shredder, and I fucking dig the flabbergasted expressions on their stupid faces when once in a while I actually made the right choice and ultimately got into a decent college.

I spent a third of my life being a teenager. An immature, hormonal, spoilt leech on society. I’m so used to being this imbecile that I’ve kind of grown to love it, and I’ve also forgotten how to be anyone else. I don’t want people to take me seriously and expect the best of me. I don’t want to enjoy my 20s and make intellectual, “mature” friends. I don’t want to grow up, okay??? And you know what hurts the most? I can no longer say Teen Spirit gets kids like “us” in a way no one ever has. Imagine claws digging into your shoulder blades, sinking so deep and hard into your flesh that they lacerate your tendons and scratch your bones; imagine them trailing down the length of your torso, shredding your muscles to rip your bloody, throbbing organs out your body. Yeah, that’s about a tenth of the pain I feel every time I see the word Teen in Teen Spirit, and every time I remember that Kurt Cobain is dead.

Why I Don’t Consider Myself a Feminist

Musings/Rants

Because I want to be abused, manipulated, and humiliated by men. I am happy and proud to know that having boobs and a vagina makes me unqualified to receive as fat a paycheck as my vagina-less co-workers even though we do the same shit day in day out. I’d love to give up my career as a janitor or a freelance journalist or a screenwriter and spend the rest of my life changing diapers and doing laundry and mopping the marble floors of the $10 million mansion that I would obviously not be residing in had I not married a man. I want to breathe and live and sleep in the fucking kitchen because that’s my natural habitat and all animals are attracted to their natural fucking habitats.

No screw that, I’m too self-absorbed to not believe in feminist ideals. I think the world is one shit eating twat for under-appreciating and constantly humiliating the very species responsible for its existence. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. If every woman decides to get her vagina stitched up right now, we can end the human race and every little fucker who dared say “go back to the kitchen” within the next century. That’s how much power we have and you better believe it.

But still, does agreeing with some parts of a movement make you a believer? I’m an atheist but I wholeheartedly support the very Christian values of love and family…even though I think the keystone (that big fat book) of that religion is total bullshit. Perhaps I’m just too pessimistic to believe that feminism is going to inspire significant change in this era (by significant change, I don’t mean Charlize Theron negotiating a $10 million raise to match Chris Hemsworth’s meager earnings), but for me to really feel passionate about a cause I have to feel some kind of urgency. What would happen if we don’t ever close the wage equality gap? Are feminists going to hanging themselves in protest? To me, gender inequality, at least in first world countries, feels more like an inconvenience rather than a toxic social virus that needs to be immediately terminated. We’ll get mad, we’ll riot, but in the end we’ll still turn up at work every morning and accept 20% less money than the assholes who put in 20% the effort that we do. Ultimately, we still do get paid and we’ll live just fine.

It’s unfair as hell, and wage inequality is just the tip of a very, very large iceberg. But what can we really do about a problem that has its roots in biology? Women and men just aren’t programmed the same way, and to have the same laws or the same social attitudes governing two very different species is not feasible. Be honest, do you really go to dinner and not expect your date to pay for you? Do you really look around your 9th grade classroom and expect 90% of the guy to be porn virgins? Do you really go on Omegle and not expect the first guy who hits on you to be some hairy balding pedophilic 30-year-old rapist? Are you really not shocked when you find out that the person who kidnapped and murdered two children is actually a woman? We think of the worst in each in other, and that won’t change unless we evolve into hermaphrodites. But as much as we complain we still can’t fucking live without each other, can we?

P.S: My featured image is a seahorse because sometimes I wish we can all metamorphorsize into seahorses so we won’t ever have to waste time on this gender inequality bullshit and oh we’ll be so much prettier too