All posts by Lulu

The rainbow hint

A new trend seems to be washing over the USA and, consequently, over the world – because why wouldn’t everybody follow in the footsteps of the great freedom dealers, amirite? Teenagers all over North America are coming out via school yearbooks. You see the gay expression on their faces, smiling above some semi-funny quote about having been in the closet.

This makes me quite nostalgic. Gone are the good ol’ days when you’d go on reddit and read about teenagers coming out to their parents by baking a suggestive rainbow layered cake and then writing “I’m gay” in icing, just in case their progenitors were too slow to get the rainbow hint. Yearbook quotes don’t go on Youtube, folks, thus they do little in terms of providing entertainment, which sort of defeats the purpose of the whole thing.

Now, if you’ve managed to read this far, you’re probably expecting some sort of homophobic rant following that introduction. If that’s the case, you clearly haven’t read my last piece of writing, which shows I’m as pro-LGBT community as one can be. Partly because I’m part of it.

There, I said it. Coming out on a semi-obscure website, in an article that will probably only be read by Chris who has to proofread it before publishing it, is not as original and creative as a yearbook quote, but I’ll take what I can get.

You see, where I come from, there aren’t any yearbooks. There’s only patriarchy, homophobia and all the gender and sexuality stereotypes you can think of. Where I come from, I was summoned to the principal’s office when I was 16 because when my literature teacher asked us to write a piece about someone we loved, I wrote about my girlfriend at the time. They took it as a bad joke, since I’d always been the rebellious one. I laughed it off and admitted that yes, it was an attempt at being funny, because that was easier than having to face the reality that I’ll probably have to deal with that kind of reaction my whole life. I re-wrote the stupid essay and got away with it.

When I started dating a boy a few months later I could actually see the relief in my teacher’s eyes as she saw us kissing in the school’s corridor. Then I went away to uni and I was far enough from that forsaken little town to do whatever I wanted and whomever I wanted without having to hear the gossip. I avoided visiting my hometown like one would avoid being at a Justin Bieber concert. For a while I thought it was because I was scared, but then I realized I was not scared at all. I was just annoyed, and the task of explaining myself and my sexuality to whomever happened to see me making out with a girl in the park would be onerous.

That’s how I made it so far in life without ever having to admit that all those rants at family dinners about LGBT rights were more personal than any of them knew. But in the light of the Pride parade that just took place in London and me being on the team of volunteers, I decided to come out.

The idea was strange at the beginning, because I thought – and probably rightly so – that nobody would actually give a fuck about who I want to shag. But then again, I will eventually have to talk about it, either when someone will see me holding hands with a girl or when I get into a serious relationship with one and want to introduce her to my friends and family. At least if I came out I could do it on my terms and not be forced to explain myself.

After coming out to some of my closest and oldest friends, I learnt two things. First, nobody can ever prepare you for the kind of pain you feel when your friends mock you for who or what you are. Second, there’s a huge misconception about bisexuals. Guys gave me meaningful looks and started throwing subtle threesome hints my way. One of them said “Now that I know you like girls, I can talk to you like you’re a guy; that makes everything so much easier”. Well I have to check to make sure, but I think I still have my vagina, even though I just said I was bisexual, so yea, pretty sure I’m still a gal.

My girlfriends, on the other hand, just shrugged the whole issue off and said “You still like guys, you’re basically straight” and then gave me the patronizing talk about how everybody experiments during uni. I suppose they missed the part where I was having sex with girls at 15 and I’m not in uni anymore. And of course, I got the classic “You either like men or women, you can’t have both”. Well I think Alfred Kinsey would disagree.

Obviously, the story of my coming out won’t go viral on Facebook and I will probably not end up throwing a “bye bye, closet” party, where friends and family gather round and try to ignore my Mum’s tears and pretend they’re not picturing me scissoring some woman. Instead, I’m taking the easy path of anonymity, writing about it under a fake and rather shitty name, in an article that will never be linked back to me. It may sound sad. It’s not, though, because thanks to the Pride parade on Saturday, I realized that strangers can sometimes be closer to me than family or friends. Also, there’s an overwhelming sense of belonging when you’re floating through a sea of approximately 70,000 people who are united by the same goal of having the freedom to be and to love whomever they want.

In the end, I suppose we all have our skeletons in the closet, but there’s no reason why we should live in there with them.

The gay wedding cake

I don’t have many phobias, but…fuck, who am I kidding? I have plenty of phobias. I’d make a nice case study for those of you interested in the brains of freaks.

One of these phobias is called musophobia and it means I have a fear of mice. And not like one of those “Ohmigosh I have a mouse in my house, I’d better get a jar and catch it because ew” kind of fears. More like being unable to move for 25 minutes because I just saw a mouse and even though it ran away as soon as it saw my ugly face, I feel like any move will make it come back with an army of little hairy wingless bats desperate to chew through me.

So here I am, at 4am, sitting in my bed, desperately trying not to wet my pants, because I saw a mouse two hours ago and now I’m afraid to step on the floor in case the beast attacks my toes. After half an hour of lying here, trying to regulate my breath and convince myself that no, a thousand mice won’t suddenly jump on my bed and crawl all over my body, I managed to move enough to get the computer from my desk and go online.

Facebook is very interesting at night. There’s only a handful of people online, half of them are drunk and the other half are either depressed or very tired but unable to sleep for various reasons. Also, there’s nothing interesting on newsfeed because, d’oh, everybody’s fucking sleeping in their pest-free homes.

However, after a lot of scrolling (hello, carpal tunnel) I come across an article shared by someone with the title: “The moral of the gay wedding cake row: the law can’t create tolerance”. The description of it says the following: “A Christian walks into a Muslim signwriter’s shop and orders a placard. He says it should carry a cartoon of the prophet and the slogan Muslims Go Home. The signwriter is deeply offended and says he cannot complete the order. The customer is outraged at the discrimination, is supported by the Equality Commission, sues, and the signwriter is fined £500 plus costs. I think most people would find such a saga absurd.”

When an article begins with such a ludicrous comparison, by putting hate speech and love together and saying they’re basically the same, I lose all interest in reading the rest of the piece. So I confess, for the sake of full disclosure, that I only read bits of it.

What I can say is that, for me, religion has no place in this debate. It has absolutely no value whatsoever as an argument in the issue of gay marriage. Law is above religion, period. Sure, everybody is entitled to their own beliefs, but making laws out of said beliefs, laws that millions of people will have to obey, is about as laughable as saying that the legalisation of same-sex marriage will turn more people gay.

Why is it that lawmakers keep religion as their ace in the hole, something to take out and flaunt when it’s beneficial and then conveniently put away when it’s not? A man beats his wife because she showed her ankles in public? Put that fucker behind bars. Where does he think he is? This is the West, we’re civilised here, people are free to show off some skin (although, if you’re a lady, keep your nipples covered, because that’s taboo even for the civilized and progressive Western society; not if you’re a man, though, because your nipples are special and can and should be seen by the world). A woman refuses to take off her veil for a license photo because of her religion? She’s a threat to national security, that freak.

Some old, white, Irish Catholic dude and his wife refuse to bake a wedding cake because it’s for a gay wedding? Well who the hell do they think they are? Oh wait, no. Actually, they can totally do that. It’s their right, because of their religion and their beliefs and… you know, all that freedom thing we have in the West. Sorry, gay dudes/lesbian ladies!

Yes, I’m aware this is not how it happened in this particular case, but it’s certainly the outcome a lot of people were hoping and arguing for. Because, in the words of this little genius who wrote the piece: “Law can’t create tolerance”. Well guess what? Law was just as unable to create tolerance back when black people had to ride in the back of the bus and use the back door to get into buildings. Same when women were not supposed to be in those damn universities, but at home nursing future misogynistic little shits and trophy wives to be. Yet it somehow changed and the world changed with it, because the fun thing about law is that it doesn’t give a fuck about your totally legit reason to break it.

It’s 2015, the world is going through economical, social and environmental crises that need our attention, so the fact that we waste our time and resources to debate the legality and morality of marriage between two people who are in love, based solely on their genitalia, is ludicrous to me. Can you no longer pray to whatever god helps you sleep at night if your male neighbour is touching his dick to another dick? Can you not attend your church on Sundays because there is some woman out there who just ate pussy for breakfast? And should your neighbour marry his boyfriend, will that make it physically impossible for you to breathe, blink, eat, piss, shit, reproduce, sleep etc?

I’ll go out on a limb here and assume the answer to all these questions is “no”. Based on that, I urge you to think of this: there was a time when Christianity was illegal and if you can now exercise your beliefs without fear of being executed it’s only because some people, thousands of years ago, fought for you to do so. Your battle is over. Now let others have their wins.

Immortality and a super-awesome afterlife

She’s here again. I’ve seen her every single day for the past couple of weeks. I feel like I know her, like we have some sort of relationship.

She sees me getting out of the station at 9am every morning, carrying two coffees and listening to my music, trying really hard to avoid her. Unfortunately, I can see we’re growing closer each time we meet.

First time I saw her she was standing a few feet away, watching me shyly with her magazine. Then she started taking little steps towards me, every time. Today, as I try to move as fast as possible and look anywhere but at her, she comes really close and shoves a magazine in my face.

The Watchtower.

Then I see her lips moving, but I can’t hear her. Instinctively, I take my earbuds off and she repeats her question. ‘Have you met Jesus?’ I look around, rather confused, expecting some hidden camera to show up, carried by some nerd I could punch. Is this a totally inappropriate spin-off of Barney Stinson’s matchmaking game?

Apparently not; she’s actually serious. And she keeps cramming that magazine in my face. Seriously, if she continues to shove that bullshit down my throat I’ll start feeling like Jenna Haze. If I have to deepthroat something on a Monday morning, I’d rather it wasn’t Jesus, thank you very much.

What is wrong with these people? What kind of twisted logic could have them believe that in order to get a ticket to Heaven they need to go around trying to ‘save souls’ and ‘bring people on the right path’? That’s like a kid trying to get into Disneyland by convincing his friends it’s a really fun place. You want to go to Disneyland, buy a fucking ticket and go, but don’t nag me about it. Same rules apply to Heaven.

Where does this arrogance stem from? It’s quite fascinating, if you think about it. Most of these religious cults praise humbleness, yet they also tell their followers that it’s their mission to save all the poor mortals around them who haven’t had the luck to find the way to redemption. Saving the world seems a bit removed from a humbling mission, if you ask me.

I know for a fact that if I found the way to immortality and a super-awesome afterlife, I wouldn’t share shit with any of you nitwits. I’d invite a few people to join in, of course. What’s an afterlife without a dealer and some people to party with? But stand in front of a tube station, freezing my butt off to get you on the amazing train to Super Fun Town? Hell no!

I don’t trust people who are so eager to share their secret recipes for happiness, whichever form it may take. That’s why I’ve never jumped at the opportunity to drink some disgusting shake that smells like manure just because some bloke promised it would cleanse my colon and turn me into the poster child for the upper middle class white girls with blonde hair, tiny waist and no boobs they always have in their ads. The one time I did fall for this whole “I can show you the way to everything you ever wanted” the promised happiness came in powder form and I ended up selling my used underwear on a Japanese website in order to fund it. I have learned my lesson.

I was so deep in thought the poor girl was under the impression I was listening to her, so she’s now super excited and trying to tell me about all the ways I can meet Jesus, because, so she says, he’s coming soon.

Calm your titties, dollface. I’ve already met Jesus. We did shots off each other in Mexico last summer. And if I remember correctly, he did come, albeit a bit too soon. Don’t get me wrong, that was really fun and all, but I have no intention of meeting him again.

Disney meets Stephen King

Ever since I was 7, I’ve been wondering if there was something wrong with me. I woke up every morning for almost 20 years with the question floating through my mind, between thoughts of food and coffee. The inside of my head sounded something like “I’m hungry, what should I have for breakfast? I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. I know: coffee.” The answer is always coffee.

Now I know for sure. There is definitely something wrong with me, because it’s Saturday evening and I’m going to my friend’s house to babysit for her. As I pass hoards of party people, some of them already in a joyful state of inebriation, the certainty that something is wrong with me grows stronger. I try to focus on the music that’s now blaring in my headphones. At some point, I swear I can hear Strummer screaming “There’s something wrong with you” between the lyrics of Cheapskates. Surely, missing out on the parties I was supposed to attend in order to spend the night with the spoiled brats my friend birthed is a sign of something being completely messed up in my head.

Maybe my brain’s been bleeding somewhere in the frontal lobe, thus changing my personality. This may sound extreme, but my friend has three girls, which is reason enough to say no to babysitting. They always look like they came out of a Disney book and that creeps me out. What’s up with those Elsa dresses they keep wearing? This Frozen shit is like crystal meth for little girls.

I look around at girls aged 2 to 7 and all I can see is a future generation of Taylor Swift-loving idiots waiting for some dumbass Prince Charming to kiss their loneliness away. Yesterday I saw a toddler wearing a pink onesie that said “future trophy wife” in capital dark pink letters. Her mum was pushing the buggy around with a smug look on her face, as if already envisioning the life of her offspring in the shadow of some poor fucker who’d have to work 80 hours a week to support the fifties cliche he chose as a wife.

Isn’t society supposed to evolve? Why the fuck are we heading back to the last century? What’s with all these gender stereotypes? Women get pregnant and they can’t wait to find out the sex of the baby, just to know if they should decorate the nursery in tones of pink or blue, although I imagine it won’t be long until some nutjob will have their house covered in shades of grey – about fifty of them. Poor foetuses haven’t even developed fingerprints at the time their fate is decided and colour-coded.

“Oh, baby, Mummy loves you so much. Now, because you have a vagina, you will have to wear headache-inducing colours, play with dolls and survive on lettuce for the vast majority of your life. Please don’t step out of this tiny pink glittery box or you’ll have a very hard time. Other than that, welcome to the world, it’s lovely having someone I can dump all my unaccomplished hopes and dreams on.” Does that sound messed up to you? That’s because it is.

And don’t get me wrong, it’s much the same with boys. The only reason I’m focusing on girls is the fact that I’m surrounded by them and it’s obnoxious seeing this happening every single day. My friend is a nice woman, but she’s making the same mistake as most mothers nowadays. I stopped visiting her by the time her second daughter turned 2. The last time I went to see them, her lounge was something out of a horror story. A pink, glittery horror story. It was Disney meets Stephen King. Carrie at the prom covered in glittery blood. I don’t know if ‘glitter allergy’ is a thing, but it should be and I should try and get it. It would be the perfect excuse to stay away from the three future housewives with sticky hands and weird white wigs that she’s raising.

We think we’re the lucky ones, the ones free and educate their children in that spirit of freedom and accomplishment. Yet there’s a girl across the world who faced bullets in order to protect her right to go to school, at an age when girls in Western countries post pouting selfies on Instagram because they don’t have a boyfriend to validate their worth. We think they’re savage because they force their daughters into marriage, yet we’re so quick to judge a woman who gets to a certain age and is still single and childless.

We jump on our high horses and descend onto ‘poor, uneducated’ peoples to serve them a nice warm slice of our wisdom, not realizing it smells oddly like shit. You’ll read a magazine article praising some Hollywood star’s feminist campaign, then turn the page and find ‘beauty tips’ and ‘diet advice’, because surely, as a woman, you can’t be interested in much else.

And all this shit starts with the Disney movies that seem so perfectly innocent. We take our little girls and spoon feed them all the stereotypes you can think of: girls always have teeny tiny waists, princes are handsome and if you see someone physically ugly in the movie you can bet they’re the bad guy. That’s why they grow up to quickly help that young man in an expensive suit who suddenly got sick in the middle of the street, while ignoring the homeless who’s probably dying under their eyes. And if they somehow grow up without having the perfect princess body, that’s fine, they have the women magazines to teach them all about lemon detox and how to hide their pimples.

People often ask me why I hate children. They assume I do, because I quit teaching for no apparent reason and I say I don’t want to have children of my own. I don’t hate children, though. I hate their parents and their ignorance. I hate how I saw a woman say ‘no’ when her daughter wanted a green tee with a dinosaur on it and buy a pink one instead; when people say to me “you’re too smart for your own good”, but never say it to my brother or my male friends; when they assume a woman is single because she can’t “keep a man around” and not because she actually chooses to be single; when a boy is “gay” because he likes to knit rather than watch football; when “real men have muscles” and “real women have curves” because if you’re too skinny you’re less of a man or a woman.

It’s a two-edged sword, though, because the victims of the issue are also the enforcers of it. Growing up with this bullshit makes children see the world in a very twisted way. They’re not only the ones trying hard to fit in, but also the ones who judge others for not succeeding.

And yes, I still stand by my opinion – it all starts with the fuckin’ Disney movies. I’d like to see Disney make a movie about an average sized girl who likes chocolate a bit too much, binge-watches Netflix at weekends and works a shitty job to pay her way through her neuroscience degree, all the while being single and far from frustrated by it. Or maybe a musical about a princess falling in love with another princess and flipping those who stand against it. But god forbid we teach our children something about real life, right?

A newfound respect for my boobs

After a recent break up with my boyfriend of 6 years, aside from looks of pity from my friends and questions about grandchildren from my mother I got a new sense of freedom and a surge of creativity. I therefore decided to pack my shit and move to a place that could offer both inspiration for my writing and fun for my young spirit – London.

Now, it hasn’t really done much for my writing – and I’m starting to believe that spending my days stuffing my face with Doritos and watching old episodes of The Walking Dead might have something to do with that – but it managed to not be a disappointment in terms of fun. I spent the first couple of months pub crawling and talking to pretty much anybody who would reply to my semi-drunk ramble (met some nice people, we still keep in touch). Cute guys, free drinks and a newfound respect for my boobs. What’s not to like? I even managed to land my first one-night stand (do I still call it that if it was morning?)

It eventually became exhausting and quite tedious. Simple as it may sound to those of you who aren’t connoisseurs of the nightlife or simply aren’t female, it is a far from simple process.

The most excruciating part of it is shaving. Who the fuck came up with the idea that women – and ONLY women – should go through beauty rituals alarmingly similar to torture methods in order to be redeemed acceptable for mating? Far from being a flower-power Charles Manson loving and shower hating hippie, I strongly disagree with the idea that the female half of our species should have to pour hot wax on their body for the sake of having a (usually) very hairy male counterpart cum too early while not even bothering to notice the lack of pilosity on the lassie’s limbs and nether regions before passing out with a look of unmitigated bliss on their unshaven face. As if exuding hormones is not enough anymore.

Thus, here I was, in a seemingly hopeless situation until, out of nowhere (seriously, I have no fucking clue as to how I stumbled upon it) here comes my solution – Tinder. Oh yes, the mystery world of online dating was opening its gate to me through this little app on my phone, with a shortcut icon shaped as a flame. Because nothing burns stronger than desire (they should use that in the commercials).

Having Tinder is much like ordering a takeaway. No need to put on fancy clothes and drag your fat ass to an overpriced restaurant with a name you can’t (or won’t) say out loud; a few clicks and swipes and you have whatever you want delivered to your front door, so to speak (seriously, don’t invite complete strangers to your house). I’ve saved time, that I can spend instead with Norman Reedus, and money, to buy anything that’s not hot wax with.

The first thing to remember about Tinder – it’s a hook-up app. Dreaming about finding a boyfriend on Tinder is like putting on a von Trier movie and expecting unicorns who fart rainbows and Sean Bean characters who get to live for the entirety of the film. It’s not going to happen. – the sooner we accept it, the better.

The app is perfect for someone who enjoys single life and just wants to make it easier. Hey, it’s free sex without the pre-mating ritual of drinking shots until he looks like the lost twin of Ryan Gosling. Doesn’t get easier than that. Not to mention the luxurious option of un-matching him right after (thus shutting his mouth for eternity), rather than explaining you can’t stay for breakfast because your grandmother’s neighbour’s cat died and you must absolutely be there for them. Sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it?

That’s because it is. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with society? Apparently, men have to fit two criteria if they ever hope to be matched with someone: write down their height (absolutely must be taller than 6ft) and have a photo of them next to a tiger or other exotic animal. Alternatively, they can replace the animal with a cool sport or a photo of a headless six pack floating freely in the virtual universe of hormones translated as megapixels.

One of the two will get them a girl with a cute face. That’s it, really, because the fat ones only take selfies from shoulders up; if they won’t even show their shoulders, it’s bad – they probably have a double chin (no offence, but I’m not all about that bass). Also, out of all the men I talked to on Tinder (most of them in their late 20s/early 30s) not one got my references to music or film, which has me believing that men nowadays are stuck listening to Skrillex and watching The Hangover 3.

This whole Tinder issue says a lot about us as a society. The internet made it all easier. We have everything delivered to our door: groceries, appliances, books, clothes, boxes of shit (those cards really ARE against humanity, aren’t they?) And now sex. Simple and uncomplicated. Or is it?

In the end, on balance, pub crawling’s not so bad compared to blind first dates. (Remember that 6ft six-pack issue I was telling you about? Yeah, people lie about that.) Also, I’d rather run into my future “some guy I met” in a place I know and like, which will mean we at least have something in common. Not to mention I know where to start looking for him a few weeks later to tell him he gave me herpes or a baby.