Making Up My Mind

At the moment everyone seems to be posting some variation of the ‘makeup vs feminism’ debate which, don’t get me wrong is great to read but, majorly infringes on my attempts to be original. It’s not like I have much else going for me. From now on if you want to write about anything vaguely feminist, you have to consult me first otherwise I’ll have to sue. Sylvester.

Before we begin our makeup chat (it feels like that part in the Fimbles where Roly Mo used to crack open a top-notch story and check you were sitting comfortably before he began. Ultimately, I am feminist Roly Mo) I think it’s important to read this with two things in mind:

1. I wear makeup
2. I study philosophy

Therefore while I spend half an hour in Boots deciding whether I’m shade 02 or 03 in Bourjois AirMat (I know I’m 03, I’ve always been 03, I will always be 03 yet every time I go to buy 03 I feel the need to swatch 02 just in case) I can simultaneously contemplate if my decision is linked to Plato’s Cave. Because all philo kids know that apparently somehow for magical reasons that they don’t understand everything links to The Cave. Due to these traits this posts stems from a seed of curiosity, not the intention of criticising for how much/little makeup you wear.

Follaback Girl: Twitter Edition

Firstly, Happy Mental Health Awareness Week! This isn’t a post relating to that wonderful week because I’m not organised enough for that kind of thing, however I hope it’s a week of opening conversations, asking questions and listening to the answers- at the end of the day we can hashtag it all we like but it takes words to change the world.

On a lighter note, a few weeks ago I realised successful blogs were synonymous with large social media followings- something I’d only ever put half effort into creating- so I changed my Instagram name, followed some more people and downloaded Crowdfire (I know, I know, I’ve become one of them). And it’s going well. Except the age old problem: who to follow back? We could romanticise it and pretend that it’s everyone, but we all know that never ends up being the case and here are the reasons why. P.S. Pics come from some of my favourite Twitter bloggers which link to their pages.

Your Profile Picture Scares Me: And I’m not talking about a selfie with asymmetrical eyebrows here (although ngl sometimes they’re a little creepy), I’m talking the full on Maris-Piper-potato-sitting-on-a-swing-holding-a-sickle-and-hammer photo. I don’t understand. Are you on the run from the secret service or are you just really into communist vegetables? If anyone possesses a peculiar profile picture- I can’t show you any because I’ve unfollowed all them all- please get in touch and explain.

(And sticking with the photography theme) You Post Loads Of Photos Of Your Feet: Are you purposely trying to emotionally destroy me?

The Piers Morgan Problemo

After all the Friday nights we dedicated to listening to him unwind celebrity life stories and equally committed Saturday viewings as he buzzed Britain’s most talented acts, Piers Morgan has gone and become an utter cock. Which says a lot. Because I really don’t like gendered insults. Now I have a feeling that, especially as a journalist, he’s done some controversial things before but as I’ve only just mentally matured his lack of intelligence has only recently become apparent. I apologise to all the people that noticed it before because if they told me I’d probably responded along the lines of: *spits out Starbucks Grande Venti Latté Caramel Macchiato (equally out of shock and the fact it’s vile)* ‘Piers? He interviewed MARY BERRY- Mary wouldn’t stand for that shit, she can’t even stomach a soggy bottom. Darling you must be mistaken, Piers is one of the good guys. His name is French. You just don’t understand him.’ Oh, how times have changed. Oh how toxic his Twitter has become (it’s like a blady Britney Spears song). Seatbelts on Teamales- unless you’re on a train, which might be a little problematic and I’d request you move for the sake of this metaphor- let’s find out why I’m auto-correcting his name to ‘irrational, anti-feminist swine.’

Obviously, I’m referring to his recent comments about feminism. Mainly triggered by the tweet to the right which has so many flaws (people think philosophy is a boring subject and maybe sometimes, when you’re trying to translate Plato’s Republic from ancient Greek using nothing but the Rosetta Stone as guidance, it is but other times it teaches you amazing things like how to pick holes in every argument aka debate goals). Firstly, since when was feminism limited to merely two examples? Gender equality is happening in thousands of baby steps across the world all the time and it’s a movement that these three women are a

Okay Ladies Now Let’s Get in Menstruation

I’m sorry okay but you can’t let Beyoncé drop the album of the week and then expect me not to make an incredibly poor pun out of it. Fortunately for my uterus, Lemonade was the only thing that dropped this week as my period is late again, however in its absence I thought we could talk about something I have a love/hate relationship with: menstrual cups.

Now don’t get me wrong, I want to like them. In fact (despite this super long list of reasons why I hate them) I’m actually trying really hard to get used to the idea of essentially putting a mug inside me, especially because they’re so hygienic and cheap and environmentally friendly and feminist and you can pick the colour(! Beat that Tampax). I have friends that use and love them, so hopefully one day I’ll be in that club, but until then, here are my Period Cup Calamities: (yes the font has to be red)

I can never tell if they’ve popped open: For those of you lucky enough to not be aware of how cups work, you basically fold them into an aspiring origami flower and then when they’re ‘in’ they should pop into the shape they were before unfolding. However I can’t feel a bloody (ironically) thing and therefore have no idea when this has happened. The problem is that if they don’t unpop then they leak. And the only thing more traumatic than putting in a menstrual cup is putting in a menstrual cup and finding out you haven’t put it in right until a few hours later when the strawberry jam disaster has ruined your new Jack Wills pants.