Do We Choose Insecurity?

I’m of the (slightly controversial) opinion that people choose to be insecure. Obviously there will be exceptions like if you’re bullied you have insecurity projected onto you or if you have severe body dysmorphia you can’t help but see your body as fundamentally different to what it really looks like, but as a rule of thumb, insecurity is a choice.

In some senses, it isn’t a conscious choice. After all no one would choose to feel shit about themselves, but it other ways, it is a conscious decision as people choose to do nothing about it. They stay insecure and they stay complaining about being insecure and yet they do nothing to make themselves more confident. For a long time, I fell into this category too.

 

When I was younger I hated how I looked and the people I went to school with seemed to agree (why are kids so mean? Anyone?) so I would skip meals to get thinner- spoiler alert this technique doesn’t have the desired effect and only makes your stomach rumble reallllly loudly so it sounds like a miniature thunderstorm mid-maths test- and research different plastic surgeries to save for. I was miserable.

 

And then one day, after watching the Katy Perry movie (I’m convinced all the best mental breakdowns happen during the credits of this film) I cried to my mum about how sad it was making me, and after much emotional support she said: there’s nothing wrong with you, and even if there was, why would it matter?

In Defence Of Buying Followers

I’ve never bought followers. But I’ve thought about it, and realistically I’m sure I’m not the only blogger who has.

But recently I’m seeing this hugely venomous reaction to people who have bought followers on social media-  it seems Twitter’s top 3 most hated topics are currently Fascism, Theresa May’s kitten heels and follower buying, and I find this really unfair.

 

Don’t get me wrong, is it annoying when you work for years to build up your blogging audience and then some tween with a few posts reviewing shitty Primark makeup gets 10k views overnight because she’s bought her WordPress followers? Yah. But is there anything inherently wrong with that? Well, not really.

 

 Often people are criticised for buying followers due to the belief that they haven’t put in effort so it’s ‘cheating’ but this is a massive assumption. While there are probably lots of people who do buy followers because they have zero patience and dodgy content that no one wants to read, there will also be lots of people who work so hard on their blogs and they just want a numerical reward which reflects how much effort they’re putting in. I mean, are you really going so spend actual, physical, real money on some website that you don’t give a shite about? There has to be some foundation of effort and love there in order for you to care enough to spend your dollar in the first place. For me, I feel like I would be completely justified in buying followers due to the amount of time and research I put into my content, photos and promotion- I just personally choose not to because I prefer to grow my following myself. But who am I to judge someone who has a different preference? 

Foundation Finding Struggle

I’m the first person to admit, my foundation is always wrong. Whether it’s the wrong shade, brand or coverage for my skin, it’s consistently slightly off in some way (even though everyone’s too polite to tell me, it’s kewl guys, I know). But as I’ve been talking to more people, I realise, we’re all kind of in the same boat- it seems no one really knows what colour sludge to rub across their face- and so I thought I’d compile a list of all the relatable struggles in the search for the perfect foundation.

The Impossible Shade Finding Experience: I go into Boots looking like your average Urban Outfitters It Girl yet I come out as a Dulux Colour Chart with every shade from porcelain to espresso swatched on my arm- even though 90% of the colours don’t even come close to my skin tone, once I’m 5 samples in I usually just think fuck it and collage my elbows with Chris Ofili-esque dotting and pretend I belong in the Tate Modern too. Until Boots run out of tissues. And so I have to walk my exhibit around with me for the rest of the day and risk being chased out of Topshop by the security guard for contaminating the fishnet tights with Rimmel.

But the problem is if you’re one of life’s risk-takers who doesn’t swatch, favouring a ‘grab the bottle which looks right’ approach, then you can face some dire consequences…

Feminist Problems With Parenting

I’m the first one to criticise, well, everything, but having a little brother has made me realise how much I hate the default setting on the remote control of parenting. It’s rare that you get to witness a child being brought up- when they’re your own you’re often oblivious to the faults in your parenting or when it’s someone else’s child you don’t see them enough to establish what their parenting is like- so as sister with an age gap big enough to fit both Trump’s ego and hair, I feel like I’m in a pretty unique position. Here are some things I hate, from a feminist perspective, about modern parenting.

The Boys Wear Blue, Girls Wear Pink BS: My stepmum refused to dress her son in a purple jumper the other day because she didn’t want him to be mistaken for a girl. Like, seriously? Personally, I really hate the colour purple (I’m not a fan of the film either but I’ll take that out on Spielberg not you) so I don’t want to try too hard to defend it, but the fact you control what your child wears based on the fact they might be seen to be feminine just shows how fragile masculinity is. What’s so intrinsically important about the gender of your child that you place it above their comfort and freedom of choice? If bab wants to wear the purple jumper then let him look like a bar of Dairy Milk for the day.

And while we’re on the subject of clothing, would it not just be 13x easier for all babies to wear dresses, instead of having to unbutton the shirt, take off the trousers (I saw a mother with a baby wearing dungarees the other day and the impracticality burnt my eyes), undo the baby grow, etc. Stick ‘em in a dress, lift it up, change the nappy, done. Faff free. Until you realise you’ve left the Sudocrem at home. Again.