Sunday, September 27, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
PETA.
Somehow in my travels, I found myself on meat.org, being exposed to various propagandaz about how eating meat is wrong and advocates murder, and how we are not entitled to om nom nom nom on animals. Which I think is pretty silly, seeing as biologically speaking, humans were designed to be omnivorous. Not that I endorse cruel conditions or cute little calves having their throats slit while still alive or anything.
ANYWAY, one of the separate pages within the site I came across was this one, where you can watch a sexy PETA ad banned from the Superbowl! Yeah!
Seriously PETA, fuck you.
It's really fucking hard to take your message seriously when you say it's not okay to exploit animals, but okay to exploit women. It makes me sick that you'd cry yourselves to sleep over ANIMALS BEIN PEOPLE TOO UHUHUHUH and not care about blatant inequality and stifling oppression within your own species.
Also, I don't believe you when you say vegetarians have better sex. Go jerk off with some tofu heated up in the microwave, assfucks.
ANYWAY, one of the separate pages within the site I came across was this one, where you can watch a sexy PETA ad banned from the Superbowl! Yeah!
Seriously PETA, fuck you.
It's really fucking hard to take your message seriously when you say it's not okay to exploit animals, but okay to exploit women. It makes me sick that you'd cry yourselves to sleep over ANIMALS BEIN PEOPLE TOO UHUHUHUH and not care about blatant inequality and stifling oppression within your own species.
Also, I don't believe you when you say vegetarians have better sex. Go jerk off with some tofu heated up in the microwave, assfucks.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Stretch marks.
Stretch marks. They're a totally normal and natural component of the human body, yet the beauty industry decided they are an unforgivable trauma and must be eradicated at all costs. Especially when they appear on one's breasts, the apparent pinnacle of your femininity. It's pretty stupid, really. I think most girls grow up without seeing real tits, and all they have to compare themselves with are breasts whose true form has been concealed with silicon, makeup, clever lighting, professional photography, and digital 'enhancement'. We're told that's beautiful, and we think it's normal to look like that. I can rationalize that the beauty industry trains women to hate their bodies, but it still affects me in very powerful ways. Because it's hard to block out something that pounds at you every day.
My question is, why are stretch marks "officially" ugly in Western culture? They are not inherently ugly. There are some African societies that consider stretch marks beautiful! So why do we let the beauty industry think for us, and coerce us into using creams, lotions, serums, laser surgery, body makeup, and other middling crap to disguise our individual bodies?
I think stretch marks should be considered gorgeous. In fact, they shouldn't be called stretch marks at all. They should be called "wisdom marks" or "woman marks". They're the marks you got when you were maturing from a young girl to an independent woman, as your wonderful body curved up and formed itself. The lines accompanying your life experience, all the sorrows and joys. The legacy from the beautiful act of nurturing a child inside you. If the industry somehow adopted and marketed this point of view, who would want a pure-skinned woman? She'd be seen as naive, unshaped, incomplete and unmarked (and not in the good way).
And you know what stretch marks are? They're little rips in the dermis. Maybe you're too filled with awesome for it all to be contained in your body.
My question is, why are stretch marks "officially" ugly in Western culture? They are not inherently ugly. There are some African societies that consider stretch marks beautiful! So why do we let the beauty industry think for us, and coerce us into using creams, lotions, serums, laser surgery, body makeup, and other middling crap to disguise our individual bodies?
I think stretch marks should be considered gorgeous. In fact, they shouldn't be called stretch marks at all. They should be called "wisdom marks" or "woman marks". They're the marks you got when you were maturing from a young girl to an independent woman, as your wonderful body curved up and formed itself. The lines accompanying your life experience, all the sorrows and joys. The legacy from the beautiful act of nurturing a child inside you. If the industry somehow adopted and marketed this point of view, who would want a pure-skinned woman? She'd be seen as naive, unshaped, incomplete and unmarked (and not in the good way).
And you know what stretch marks are? They're little rips in the dermis. Maybe you're too filled with awesome for it all to be contained in your body.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Sluts.
One of the most common and rudimentary questions a developing feminist will often ask, is why society gives a big thumbs up in regards to men to having casual sex, while presenting a totally different attitude towards women doing the same thing. People will call this dude awesome, while immediately jumping on the opportunity to cry "slut! slut!" at the woman. And, I mean, it's not even exclusively in circumstances of promiscuity, it's also when a female is apparently too quick to fuck her boyfriend.
I think I'm beginning to understand how we're conditioned to think this way.
It's derived from the culture of women being expected to fulfill a role as the "looked at", so the men can be the "lookers". It is actually scary how much this is normalized in modern society. Women are illustrated as spineless, passive beauties in the media, compliant dolls who love and thrive on derogatory male attention.
Paris Hilton once described herself as "sexy, but not sexual". I believe this is an accurate description of the way women are fabricated in our collective false consciousness. Yes, we must give the illusion of being sexually available and willing, but never actually be sexually available and willing. What we have under our clothes, then, is something mysterious and exciting. We're exotic and intriguing. Enough so that men believe we have a wonderful gift to please them with, and that we exist solely to be pleasure-givers.
We do not experience sexual pleasure ourselves, though. We perform for the male, rather than have sex with him. And so the world forgets that women desire sexual gratification as well. This is why women are called sluts. Society does not think of "slutty" women as having received pleasure too easily, but as having given it over too easily. Because, women are sexy but not sexual. Society sees the idea that women might want to experience their own sexual pleasure as ridiculous.
How I feel is this. Women who have sex casually or whatever for their own gratification, and to connect sexually with another human being (or beings, if that's your thing) are not sluts. They're enjoying it, and they're living. That's cool. However, I am sure there are women who actively seek to comply with the "submissive, sexy female" ideal. Those who really impair feminism. If they go about with the sole intention of pleasing the man visually and sexually only, and dismissing their own desires in favour of being a giggling pleasurer, then maybe they are sluts.
And, I think, for society to be able to move forward, there needs to be a huge change in how it approaches both female and human sexuality. The main thing is that the image of women in the media needs to experience a 180. Make us assertive, imperfect, and horny. Make us ache to be gratified. And no, I don't mean being gratified by having some gross, muscular, monotonal douchebag jerk off on her face. Maybe then, we won't be sluts, but we'll be awesome pimps when we fuck guys too.
Hopefully one day the word "slut" will only be used in reference to those who cheat on their partners, or maintain two simultaneous, allegedly monogamous relatonships.
I think I'm beginning to understand how we're conditioned to think this way.
It's derived from the culture of women being expected to fulfill a role as the "looked at", so the men can be the "lookers". It is actually scary how much this is normalized in modern society. Women are illustrated as spineless, passive beauties in the media, compliant dolls who love and thrive on derogatory male attention.
Paris Hilton once described herself as "sexy, but not sexual". I believe this is an accurate description of the way women are fabricated in our collective false consciousness. Yes, we must give the illusion of being sexually available and willing, but never actually be sexually available and willing. What we have under our clothes, then, is something mysterious and exciting. We're exotic and intriguing. Enough so that men believe we have a wonderful gift to please them with, and that we exist solely to be pleasure-givers.
We do not experience sexual pleasure ourselves, though. We perform for the male, rather than have sex with him. And so the world forgets that women desire sexual gratification as well. This is why women are called sluts. Society does not think of "slutty" women as having received pleasure too easily, but as having given it over too easily. Because, women are sexy but not sexual. Society sees the idea that women might want to experience their own sexual pleasure as ridiculous.
How I feel is this. Women who have sex casually or whatever for their own gratification, and to connect sexually with another human being (or beings, if that's your thing) are not sluts. They're enjoying it, and they're living. That's cool. However, I am sure there are women who actively seek to comply with the "submissive, sexy female" ideal. Those who really impair feminism. If they go about with the sole intention of pleasing the man visually and sexually only, and dismissing their own desires in favour of being a giggling pleasurer, then maybe they are sluts.
And, I think, for society to be able to move forward, there needs to be a huge change in how it approaches both female and human sexuality. The main thing is that the image of women in the media needs to experience a 180. Make us assertive, imperfect, and horny. Make us ache to be gratified. And no, I don't mean being gratified by having some gross, muscular, monotonal douchebag jerk off on her face. Maybe then, we won't be sluts, but we'll be awesome pimps when we fuck guys too.
Hopefully one day the word "slut" will only be used in reference to those who cheat on their partners, or maintain two simultaneous, allegedly monogamous relatonships.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Hahaha.
I don't know if this was blatant sexism and sex stereotyping, or just store owners being lazy, but a few days ago I visited that newsagent near Hungry Jacks at Central. I think it's called Newslink or some shit? Anyway, I went in to grab a copy of MAD or something to kill some time before Cowie got out. While perusing the shelves I noticed that the magazines had not been categorized by theme, as they usually are, like music, cartoons or fashion. Instead, the wide selection had been strangely bisected into only two classifications: men's interest and women's interest.
This is what Men's Interest consisted of: automobiles, computers, TIME, music, and many identical Miss Photoshop Fake Tits 2009.
This is what Women's Interest consisted of: CLEO, Cosmopolitan, an ENORMOUS array of bridal/parenting magazines, and tacky gossip/reality read mags.
It seemed too ridiculous to be offensive, as if they purposely set out to satirize what it meant to be masculine or feminine. But still, I didn't like it. If there's one thing that gives me the damn shits in the media pertaining to gender, it's the normalized, subtle stereotypes carried out which create an almost subconscious bias that women are less worth our respect than men. And I hate that we're raising a new generation to think that way too.
The huge shelf of publications seemed to reinforce a rippling bunch of stereotypes.
By the way, MAD was in neither section. It was tucked up the back with all the other kid's stuff.
This is what Men's Interest consisted of: automobiles, computers, TIME, music, and many identical Miss Photoshop Fake Tits 2009.
This is what Women's Interest consisted of: CLEO, Cosmopolitan, an ENORMOUS array of bridal/parenting magazines, and tacky gossip/reality read mags.
It seemed too ridiculous to be offensive, as if they purposely set out to satirize what it meant to be masculine or feminine. But still, I didn't like it. If there's one thing that gives me the damn shits in the media pertaining to gender, it's the normalized, subtle stereotypes carried out which create an almost subconscious bias that women are less worth our respect than men. And I hate that we're raising a new generation to think that way too.
The huge shelf of publications seemed to reinforce a rippling bunch of stereotypes.
- Men are active, with varied interests and different talents.
- Women are passive, mostly one-dimensional.
- Women are incapable of intelligent/creative thoughts or actions. They're pretty good at filling their lives with obsession over looking good and young, though. And that's all they're expected to do.
- Men are good with technology and current events. Women are also good with current events, but only if the events are about stupid "celebs" and their diet secrets.
- Men like looking at scantily clad women.
- Women like looking at scantily clad women. (Seriously, what is with both men and women's magazines featuring the exact same image of a woman? Shouldn't the latter have a reverse equivalent? I guess it's because women are expected to look sexual but never act sexual. You know, or people hissing "slut" everywhere.)
- Women are obsessed with hooking in some poor soul for a lifetime of commitment, marriage, and babies.
By the way, MAD was in neither section. It was tucked up the back with all the other kid's stuff.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
On buses and sunsets.
I have realized, recently, I do not tend to experience sharp feelings of happiness. Instead, I am more apt to a fuzzy engulfment - a partial numbing - which in my head, I refer to as "lightness".
The feeling is made of old married couples holding hands, of abused kittens going to loving families, and of the kindness of strangers. Maybe you know the feeling. I get it sometimes. Perhaps this will seem strange or arbitrary to you, but lightness touches my heart when I catch the bus home during a sunset. What is it about something so simple? It's hard to articulate, but to me, a setting sun is a natural manifestation of another one of life's beautiful days coming to a gentle close. It is the universe saying "I hope you had a great day. Here, have a pink sky, and I'll see you tomorrow." I have a suspicion this love initially rose from the cover of an album I once loved.
But it has new meaning to me now. I ride home as the world becomes peaceful, ready to retire for the night. I can feel it all, elevated on this rickety, familiar Hillsbus. And no matter which horizon the buses direction dictates my gaze towards, I know there are beautiful, simple things happening in the world below. Today, somewhere, to someone, the following things happened:
I don't know. I am made light even by the idea of marriage and family, as it has been romanticized. I see these loving old couples, who have witnessed and experienced the entire lives of the other. Every triumph, every fall. Every transition, every tear of joy, from their salad days to as they stand now, wrinkly and yellow with experience and life. Throughout a time frame I can't even comprehend. I mean, I think that's beautiful. Maybe one day I'd be one of them too, but I don't care to risk damaging love through marriage. And that's okay. I'm happy to glimpse it around me.
These things are little and maybe they seem silly to you. That's okay too, because as I ride along Old Windsor Road with the world glowing sunset orange, I know that life, in all it's trials, pain, and elations is beautiful. Nothing could make me lighter than to be here right now.
The feeling is made of old married couples holding hands, of abused kittens going to loving families, and of the kindness of strangers. Maybe you know the feeling. I get it sometimes. Perhaps this will seem strange or arbitrary to you, but lightness touches my heart when I catch the bus home during a sunset. What is it about something so simple? It's hard to articulate, but to me, a setting sun is a natural manifestation of another one of life's beautiful days coming to a gentle close. It is the universe saying "I hope you had a great day. Here, have a pink sky, and I'll see you tomorrow." I have a suspicion this love initially rose from the cover of an album I once loved.
But it has new meaning to me now. I ride home as the world becomes peaceful, ready to retire for the night. I can feel it all, elevated on this rickety, familiar Hillsbus. And no matter which horizon the buses direction dictates my gaze towards, I know there are beautiful, simple things happening in the world below. Today, somewhere, to someone, the following things happened:
- A mother made cookie dough for cookies. Instead of getting mad at her daughter upon catching her taking little bits, she smiled, and dragged her to the loungeroom, where they watched a movie and ate cookie dough.
- A woman asked her boyfriend if he still found her attractive after the weight she had gained. He got down on one knee and proposed.
- Stuck in traffic, someone sang along to American Pie with the windows down. At least three other cars surrounding this one joined in.
- Today, Mum had to pick Hannah up from a party at night. I went for the drive with her. We didn't say a word. It was just nice being with her and making sure she had a safe drive. MLIG.
- Today, Cowie placed a mug by the kettle for me to use when I got up. I felt like the owner of an eager-to-please cat who had just placed a special gift of a dead mouse on my Mac, or somewhere similar, where he knew I'd find it. MLIG.
- Today, with windblown hair and idiotic grin all over the shop, making huge lurches at every abrupt bus stop, I was told I was beautiful by lady with a pram. I felt prettier than I had for a long while. MLIG.
I don't know. I am made light even by the idea of marriage and family, as it has been romanticized. I see these loving old couples, who have witnessed and experienced the entire lives of the other. Every triumph, every fall. Every transition, every tear of joy, from their salad days to as they stand now, wrinkly and yellow with experience and life. Throughout a time frame I can't even comprehend. I mean, I think that's beautiful. Maybe one day I'd be one of them too, but I don't care to risk damaging love through marriage. And that's okay. I'm happy to glimpse it around me.
These things are little and maybe they seem silly to you. That's okay too, because as I ride along Old Windsor Road with the world glowing sunset orange, I know that life, in all it's trials, pain, and elations is beautiful. Nothing could make me lighter than to be here right now.
Friday, June 26, 2009
So You Think You Can BE INCESTUAL?!
Seriously but, I just caught a glimpse of SYTYCD, and everything was normal: stupid, over-confident Americans, my urge to punch Mary, and shattered dreams. However, one auditioning couple made me screw up my face in deep confusion. Their body language and interactions with one another would allow one to safely assume their romantic status. However, it was revealed they were, in fact, siblings. Their dance was the most confusing of all. I was left wondering if it is possible to be so loving and trusting of your sibling that you would engage in something so close to blatant gropage, pressing up against the other, humping the floor simultaneously and so on.
Also, did you notice in the background of news reports how fucking quickly "RIP Michael Jackson" t-shirts have been manufactured? I was impressed, then I got images of some assface pulling up outside the hospital with a cart full of death shirts, ready to sell to vulnerable fans.
Also, did you notice in the background of news reports how fucking quickly "RIP Michael Jackson" t-shirts have been manufactured? I was impressed, then I got images of some assface pulling up outside the hospital with a cart full of death shirts, ready to sell to vulnerable fans.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Tattoo Face Gets Her Come-Uppance, Part I: The Birth.
Incidentally, I wanted to get giselle.blogspot.com for a URL, because that would be the shit. It was taken. After navigating to said page, I was not amused to find some fuckass had stolen my name in early 2001, and left two entries: "iiiie wat is dit?" and "llll". Yeah, mad.
I mean, at least if I got that, I'd use it for inspirational, intellectually stimulating blogs. Like, say, Tattoo Face Gets Her Come-Uppance. I feel safe to assume anyone reading this has indeed witnessed the progression of the tale, which can basically be summed up as so:
I mean, at least if I got that, I'd use it for inspirational, intellectually stimulating blogs. Like, say, Tattoo Face Gets Her Come-Uppance. I feel safe to assume anyone reading this has indeed witnessed the progression of the tale, which can basically be summed up as so:
Tattoo Face: 3 stars on mah face plz
Tattoo Artist: k
TF: actualy 56 stars plz
TA: k
TF's Father: OMG WTFFFF!1!!
TF: lol woops, i fell sleep nd shit
TA: lol wut no u didnt
Tattoo Artist: k
TF: actualy 56 stars plz
TA: k
TF's Father: OMG WTFFFF!1!!
TF: lol woops, i fell sleep nd shit
TA: lol wut no u didnt
Indeed, it spilled out into drawn-out, sorry affair, with the denoument being Kimberley "Starface McGee" Vlaeminck admitting to having lied upon seeing her furious father and henceforth figuratively shitting her pants.
My thoughts on the matter? The silly girl nearly ruined the reputation of who I'm sure is a very dedicated, professional tattoo artist (and went on, as part of her facade, to demand thousands of dollars for laser removal surgery), because she was too chickenshit to admit she made a mistake. Are her 56 facial badges of shame enough punishment? Fuck off.
This is where The Sims 3 comes into play. I have viewed the transcription of many sick, sadistic Sims experiments on the net, from psycho clowns with babies, to homeless children who have never experienced human love. Yet I have never seen a household created with the sole intent to punish and shame gratituously, rather than to satisfy our Godly curiousities.
And so is birthed Kimberley Vlaeminck, a teenage sim, with a natural, knowingly sad facial expression. Perhaps she knows it is time to receive punishment for her fuck-ups, or perhaps she's just sad that I discovered a way to adorn half her face with permanent, black stars. That's right, even in a digital world of endless visual and cosmetic possibilities, you cannot escape your choice, bitch.
Why is she bald, I hear you ask. Well, I figured if I shaved her head, there is no way she can even attempt to partially conceal her freakish disfigurement. Lying cowards do not deserve hair. In fact, I made "coward" one of her personality traits, among others I selected to reflect what we know of her. She is "childish", for instance, and "absent-minded". To spite her, and rub in her poorly thought out lie, I also made her a "heavy sleeper".
You'd think her physical appearance and horrid personality would be punishment enough for the remainder of her life, but no. Upon discovering that teenagers cannot exist on their own within a household, I realized she needed adult supervision (presumably incase, say, she got a sideways vulva tattooed on her face with her mouth as the hole).
The clear adult figure consistently referenced in articles I've read would be her father. Unfortunately, I could not find a photograph of him to reference from! All I know is that he likes icecream, and he doesn't like obtrusive facial tattoos. This is not much to work from, and I found myself forced to get a little creative. From what I know about middle Europe, if there's a hostile father prototype to be had, it would be this guy:
And so became sim Josef Fritzl Vlaeminck, an elderly gentleman who is "evil", "inappropriate", "insane", and "". But hey ladies, he's also "family-orientated"! His favourite food is sushi and he likes indie music. He actually sounds a bit like me!
And so, with Josef Fritzl standing in his little old man cardigan, I decided to modify Kimberley's attire. Previously, I was thinking that being cursed with everything aforementioned, plus having to live in her father's dingy basement as he lives comfortably upstairs would be enough. I then visualised the poor, sullen face of the tattoo artist who she heartlessly attempted to destroy emotionally and financially. No, this would not be enough. It was time to purchase a double bed.
Coming soon: Tattoo Face Gets Her Come-Uppance, Part 2: House of Doom.
My thoughts on the matter? The silly girl nearly ruined the reputation of who I'm sure is a very dedicated, professional tattoo artist (and went on, as part of her facade, to demand thousands of dollars for laser removal surgery), because she was too chickenshit to admit she made a mistake. Are her 56 facial badges of shame enough punishment? Fuck off.
This is where The Sims 3 comes into play. I have viewed the transcription of many sick, sadistic Sims experiments on the net, from psycho clowns with babies, to homeless children who have never experienced human love. Yet I have never seen a household created with the sole intent to punish and shame gratituously, rather than to satisfy our Godly curiousities.
And so is birthed Kimberley Vlaeminck, a teenage sim, with a natural, knowingly sad facial expression. Perhaps she knows it is time to receive punishment for her fuck-ups, or perhaps she's just sad that I discovered a way to adorn half her face with permanent, black stars. That's right, even in a digital world of endless visual and cosmetic possibilities, you cannot escape your choice, bitch.
Why is she bald, I hear you ask. Well, I figured if I shaved her head, there is no way she can even attempt to partially conceal her freakish disfigurement. Lying cowards do not deserve hair. In fact, I made "coward" one of her personality traits, among others I selected to reflect what we know of her. She is "childish", for instance, and "absent-minded". To spite her, and rub in her poorly thought out lie, I also made her a "heavy sleeper".
You'd think her physical appearance and horrid personality would be punishment enough for the remainder of her life, but no. Upon discovering that teenagers cannot exist on their own within a household, I realized she needed adult supervision (presumably incase, say, she got a sideways vulva tattooed on her face with her mouth as the hole).
The clear adult figure consistently referenced in articles I've read would be her father. Unfortunately, I could not find a photograph of him to reference from! All I know is that he likes icecream, and he doesn't like obtrusive facial tattoos. This is not much to work from, and I found myself forced to get a little creative. From what I know about middle Europe, if there's a hostile father prototype to be had, it would be this guy:
And so became sim Josef Fritzl Vlaeminck, an elderly gentleman who is "evil", "inappropriate", "insane", and "". But hey ladies, he's also "family-orientated"! His favourite food is sushi and he likes indie music. He actually sounds a bit like me!
And so, with Josef Fritzl standing in his little old man cardigan, I decided to modify Kimberley's attire. Previously, I was thinking that being cursed with everything aforementioned, plus having to live in her father's dingy basement as he lives comfortably upstairs would be enough. I then visualised the poor, sullen face of the tattoo artist who she heartlessly attempted to destroy emotionally and financially. No, this would not be enough. It was time to purchase a double bed.
Coming soon: Tattoo Face Gets Her Come-Uppance, Part 2: House of Doom.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Are you society-whipped?
I am wondering if you, perhaps, identify with any of the following situations.
"Uh, that's not my car."
But, basically, last semester we took a very excellent class at university. One theorist studied was Michel Foucault, and his ideas about a self-surveilling society: an efficient society in which we no longer need Big Brother because we scrutinize ourselves for concern of what others might think of us. Even if conforming to cultural norms conflicts with our interest in manifesting our individuality. And so, we behave ourselves, we watch our grooming, our sexuality, what we talk about, how clean our homes are, whom we form relationships with - virtually each aspect of our lives. Remember back to kindergarten, when the mad cunts pressured you to cross the line and join them in the out-of-bounds area? You wanted to be cool and accepted, didn't you? Well, think of society's normalizing gaze like that. Think of it as an omnipresent, pounding, constant yet invisible version of the peer pressure chant.
Peerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressure.
And we want to be normal, yeah? I dunno.
It is only after this had been articulated to me that I became conciously aware of it and desired to betray, and see others betray it. I found myself perplexed and angry, because I think it's plain shit. I mean, where's the beauty and wonder in humanity if we are all perfect, clean, and restrained? If we keep going like this, no one wins but the companies who roll around in mammoth piles of our normalizing money, smoking their cigars with their white-gloved hands, their fat eyelids dripping over their monocles. I bet they love how we've been manipulated.
Fuck it! Let's eat icecream for breakfast, sleep with tampons in, and admit to all the poppy garbage in the Top 40 we actually like. I mean, shit, we might not smell as nice, but dammit, we'd be a shitload happier.
I feel smug allowing the hair on my inner thighs to grow back, because I like it like that. I am also pleased to see evidence of people I know giving mass-media the big Fuck You. Adam wears glasses that make him look like a total nerd, because he likes them. Sam wears whatever the hell she wants. She likes it. Cowie is raring to grow facial hair that will make him look like a 70's porn star, because he likes it. (Also, I have absolutely no problem with that last one.)
It would give me the deepest pleasure to see makeup companies and cosmetic surgeons go broke. And Gillette. I don't believe society will ever celebrate our imperfect selves. But still, we can rebel in a happy orgy of oversized ears, dirty old chucks, and beards down to our normal tits.
- Someone's coming round to yours and Mum's running around like a frightened cockroach to get everything unnaturally clean and tidy before they arrive. She then goes apeshit due to the state of your bedroom.
- You've had a delightful day on the town, sporting a relatively low-cut dress, but zip up your hoodie up to your eyeballs five minutes before it's time for interaction with your boyfriend's parents.
- Your parents force you to take your far younger sibling to see 17 Again or some shit. You actually enjoy it. You lie to your friends and tell them it was shit. For the purpose of verisimilitude, you throw in a homosexual slur about Zac Efron.
- You're just a douche and lie about how far your pity-date went with you to make it seem like you actually get some.
"Your car, sir."
"Uh, that's not my car."But, basically, last semester we took a very excellent class at university. One theorist studied was Michel Foucault, and his ideas about a self-surveilling society: an efficient society in which we no longer need Big Brother because we scrutinize ourselves for concern of what others might think of us. Even if conforming to cultural norms conflicts with our interest in manifesting our individuality. And so, we behave ourselves, we watch our grooming, our sexuality, what we talk about, how clean our homes are, whom we form relationships with - virtually each aspect of our lives. Remember back to kindergarten, when the mad cunts pressured you to cross the line and join them in the out-of-bounds area? You wanted to be cool and accepted, didn't you? Well, think of society's normalizing gaze like that. Think of it as an omnipresent, pounding, constant yet invisible version of the peer pressure chant.
Peerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressurepeerpressure.
And we want to be normal, yeah? I dunno.
It is only after this had been articulated to me that I became conciously aware of it and desired to betray, and see others betray it. I found myself perplexed and angry, because I think it's plain shit. I mean, where's the beauty and wonder in humanity if we are all perfect, clean, and restrained? If we keep going like this, no one wins but the companies who roll around in mammoth piles of our normalizing money, smoking their cigars with their white-gloved hands, their fat eyelids dripping over their monocles. I bet they love how we've been manipulated.
Fuck it! Let's eat icecream for breakfast, sleep with tampons in, and admit to all the poppy garbage in the Top 40 we actually like. I mean, shit, we might not smell as nice, but dammit, we'd be a shitload happier.
I feel smug allowing the hair on my inner thighs to grow back, because I like it like that. I am also pleased to see evidence of people I know giving mass-media the big Fuck You. Adam wears glasses that make him look like a total nerd, because he likes them. Sam wears whatever the hell she wants. She likes it. Cowie is raring to grow facial hair that will make him look like a 70's porn star, because he likes it. (Also, I have absolutely no problem with that last one.)
It would give me the deepest pleasure to see makeup companies and cosmetic surgeons go broke. And Gillette. I don't believe society will ever celebrate our imperfect selves. But still, we can rebel in a happy orgy of oversized ears, dirty old chucks, and beards down to our normal tits.
I wanna see it untame itself and break it's owner.
Car, Built to Spill
Car, Built to Spill
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