Valentine’s Day: When the Feminists Fuck Up

I was sick on the 14th, and therefore the lateness of this post is justified. Anyway, let’s talk about it.

Before I launch into the anti-climactic debaucherus tirade on the celebration of the semi-lucid depiction of “true love” created by Hollywood mass marketing, I must take uno momento to make it clear that I do not intend to use this post to wage war on Valentine’s Day in and of itself.

Regardless of how I feel about a holiday dedicated to profit off the concept that true love is proved by making grandeur gestures and shaming people–particularly women–who aren’t in relationships for being frigid, weird, and/or ugly.

My rant today is a dedication to those who criticize women who do like ostentatious gestures in the form of dozens upon dozens of red roses raining down on them like bloody snow falling from a my-little-pony-esque sky delivered to them on horseback on Valentine’s Day. Just because you might not like it, does not mean you have the right to look down on them with your Trumpet-like air of condescension. You might think it’s stupid, or pathetic, or a perpetuation of stereotypes, but some women don’t, and you don’t get to judge them for that. That doesn’t make you a feminist.

That’s actually the very definition of anti-feminism. Feminism means that you get to have your own opinion and do what you want, be it rejecting the things that are considered “girly” by society or embracing them.

And just so I don’t leave the penis-weilding gender out, you get to have your own take on those same things, too. You can be just as much a manly man while taking a bubble bath and wearing Tiny Winky satin feety pajamas.

Don’t let them stop you. Be the squealing 5-year-old girl your dad wouldn’t let you be when you were little.

Cinderella’s godmother approves.

Finding Fantastic Females in Film ain’t Free

I know I haven’t been around in a while, but I feel so angry right now, that I really need to write this post.

I am not a feminist. I don’t consider myself on the feminism wagon. I believe in equality and move on with my life. There are bigger fish to fry, in this unbelievably backwards world of ours.

But as usual, I digress.

What truly angers me, nay infuriates me, is how often I turn on the television and watch gender stereotypes get drummed up to a level of infinity and beyond. I’m not saying that I want to dissolve what members of each particular sex might enjoy. That’s not my point.

My point is that, in the vast majority of film and media, the girl onscreen does specific things that make her a girl, assuming that aforementioned female is heterosexual and, for the sake of an exclusion of a colorfully graphic description I’d really like to use in this case, normal.

There are girls who are systematically being left out; the girls who don’t like make-up, or know anything about fashion, or lack any other subsequent thing you can think of that is attributed in general to the female gender.

I’m sitting here watching TV, and I can’t even remotely identify with any of the female characters, and the sad part is, I am not a special snowflake. There are tons of other girls just like me, who don’t really see themselves represented and are instead pressured to conform to expectations and realities shoved down our goddamn throats since pink was forced on us upon exit from the womb.

Because in Hollywood, you see, that’s what pays. Sex sells. Sweatpants are icky. Icky Thump, don’t you know?

I’m not trying to be different or special. Most of us aren’t. We’re just trying to live our lives, and it’s really depressing, growing up feeling different because everyone who’s anyone is telling you that you are.

It kills our individuality. I survived because I’m a hardheaded, stubborn, somewhat dead-inside bitch who revels in her disgusting self-proclaimed uniqueness.

Or perhaps I just don’t live in the same world other people do.

Yeah, I’m crazy.

That’s why I’m on the road to being a psychologist.

Except I might actually need the drugs.

You’re welcome, world.