I’ve been ragey as fuck all week because of the way mediocre white dudes get ahead while the women around them do the same work with more competence and grace – both in my life, and also in the collective life of our country in terms of our incoming executive branch.
Also because I have spent an inordinate amount of time this weird-weather-week with the exclamation, “Where the motherfuck is the C train?” flooding my brain as multiple E trains (which don’t even go to Brooklyn; they literally stop at the World Trade Center; why do they even run downtown in the evening, god fucking dammit) pass and A trains smugly enter and exit the station, half full.
When one little thing (nothing big, just the crushing weight of the patriarchy over all of us) is irking me, everything else seems so much more annoying. Some dude was spreading his legs like he was fucking crowning on the crowded-ass train this morning and I wanted to javelin my knitting needle straight into his crotch. Too violent? I think the real tragedy in that hypothetical scenario is potentially losing my knitting needle to some shithead’s crotch.
To temper my impending insanity I’m doing the 31-day Yoga Revolution with Adriene, the new queen goddess of my heart. She is everything. Yoga is…something, I guess. I can finally touch my toes, and it’s like exercising, except you mostly get to sit during it. So I can get down with that. Now I just need to get a yoga mat instead of using my lambskin rug like a fucking Neanderthal.
I know the internet wasn’t at its most developed in the early 2000s, but I’m pretty sure The Wire‘s budget was significant enough to have better production value than this.
Also, here’s an exchange between two cops:
“What was he doing with that thing in his hand?”
“Probably sending a text message.”
Damn, that’s 2002 af. Can’t wait to see how dated Breaking Bad looks in 2025.
This morning on the train I met a family of tourists from Wyoming and I was like, “Wyoming’s not a myth?” I wanted to ask them if they helped elect He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to office, but then the mom mentioned that she was from Vermont and I was like “Not only is Wyoming not a myth, but The One and Only Democrat of Wyoming is also not a myth.”
Surely something interesting must have happened to me since the last time I wrote – my mom came into town over the weekend, after all – but all I can think of is that I’m on a Law and Order: SVU bender while I knit Christmas gifts for everyone on my list. My life is so fascinating, they should make a TV show about me.
Yesterday on the train I was knitting a scarf, like ya do, and this woman sitting across from me confirmed a hypothesis I’ve been considering for the past year or so – “I like watching your knitting – it’s therapeutic.”
I thought so! I love knitting on the train because I find people’s eyes affixed, hypnotized, at the yarn moving steadily. It’s a genuine connection from others that lacks the creepiness of random staring. Plus, it’s therapeutic for me, too!
Thank fake Jesus because I need it. I saw, and was blown away by, Manchester by the Sea last weekend, and subsequently found out that Casey Affleck is a sexual predator and no one gives a shit – in fact, he’s slated to win the Oscar for best actor. Meanwhile, Nate Parker (who is also a sexual predator, by the way. Not excusing any of these garbage trucks) was dragged through the mud and lost all Oscar prospects when his sexual predation was pulled into the spotlight.
This certainly exhibits something about white privilege – a Brock Turner vs. Cory Batey situation, a situation that’s been playing out since the dawn of this fucking country. But it says something more about male privilege in general – and our (us being the public, and especially the female public) literal inability to trust any man in power. Nate Parker still has a fucking career, and his victim killed herself. Chris Brown. Bill Cosby. Woody Allen. The list is straight up endless, and y’all don’t need me to tell you. It hurts when you admire the art of a man who betrays you and shows what power did to his impulses; meanwhile, the cognitive dissonance of masterful artists like Roman Polanski or David Bowie and their already well-known affinity for predatory actions, forces women to decide between enjoying art and acting in their own self-interest. Even my most woke male ally friends don’t seem to have this internal struggle.
A rock and a hard place, AKA oppression at its core. So fun!
As a little consolation prize for everything being so fucked up, enjoy these Google images of “friends knitting”: