Anti-Feminist Feminists: Huh?

She started as a cocky little know-it-all in Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone when she was only a nipper, and is soon to be portraying one of the most iconic Disney Princess, like, ever.

Most recently however, she has used her voice as one of the most well known actresses on the planet as a dedicated crusader for feminism and equal rights. But the research she has done, the speeches she’s told and the differences she’s made are not what are being talked about at the moment.

No. It’s her tits.

Apparently, in 2017, a woman cannot possibly call herself a feminist and then have the temerity to get her baps out for a photoshoot in a prestigious fashion magazine.

Now, I wouldn’t label myself as a feminist necessarily – whether my beliefs would categorize me as one, I don’t know – but I absolutely agree with the “idea” that men and women are equal. Some men are shit, some women are shit, some men are amazing, some women are amazing; in my eyes there shouldn’t even be an acknowledgement of gender, race, religion, sexuality or anything else as we are all human beings – but I simply adore the men and women who do stand up and fight for equality for everybody. 

However, there’s always somebody who has to put 50p in the tosser. I have read a ridiculous amount of posts recently by “feminists” who appear to believe that Emma Watson is a “hypocrite” for showing a tiny bit of boob for her recent Vanity Fair shoot.

I may be a little sparse when it comes to the full background of the history of feminism but the last time I checked, feminism was about empowering other women. See, I was under this ‘apparent’ illusion that feminism was about embracing your womanly mystique, about inspiring younger women to be knowledgeable and successful, and about doing whatever the hell you wanted to do with your own body without fear of being ridiculed or raped.

But apparently, if we do want to call ourselves a feminist, then we simply can’t do all of the above. No, no. That would be absurd.

It would be utterly ridiculous to assume that you could be an intelligent woman and be beautiful. It would be laughable to assume that you could be successful in a respectable career and wear a bit of a slinky outfit. It would be completely nonsensical to assume that a woman could be empowering and influential, yet still flaunt a fraction of under-boob for a minimalistic and tasteful fashion shoot.

Honestly, have we gone bat-shit bonkers?

Are we really still so terrified of female nudity that we have to find any excuse to slander any woman who has the audacity to embrace the fact that she was born with breasts? Is it that these women intimidate us, and so in order to feel less inferior we have to degrade them to little more than a product for the wank bank?

Or maybe we just hate the fact if we do eventually concede to equality, then we’d have nothing to bitch about.

So sure, let’s slag off the woman who has dedicated years of her career to give herself an influential voice for women all over the world just because she showed some boob once.

Hell, why stop there? Why not scrap the idea of female empowerment altogether and just go back to when we were never even acknowledged as human beings?

Or better yet, we could just ignore the fact that women sometimes wear low-cut dresses, or have their photo’s taken with a few less clothes on than your every day shopping trip, or even – dare I say – talk about anything sexual in public without fear of “great offence”, and we could just love the shit out of each other.

You could tell that girl you’ve never met in the toilets of a nightclub that her make up is banging. You could tell that girl in the gym that she’s a badass. You could tell that girl at work that she’s charismatic as shit and she makes you laugh so much that you wee a little bit.

There’s enough hatred in this world at the moment to make us all give up any hope for a future with world peace and double rainbows.

Don’t incite hatred; fight it.

21st Century Living: It's All Downhill From Here

It’s difficult to live your life now without proving that you’re doing it properly by posting every move on social media. We all moan about it, we all cringe at other people’s posts, and we’re all just as guilty for doing it. Heck, I can’t remember the last time I had a cuddle with my dog and didn’t post it as my Snapchat Story, Instagram Story and on my Instagram Feed.

The thing is though; do any of us really care about other people’s day-to-day activities? Of course we want to see what our best friends are doing on their gap yah’s, what emotional memes our mum’s are posting because they “share because they love their daughter”, what incoherent comments our grandparents are posting on our friends mum’s doctor’s facebook wall asking how the kids are, and even the obnoxiously large meal that one skinny girl is claiming to eat while you writhe with jealousy because you’ve just put four pounds on looking at it and she’s still a size 8 angel. 

But do we really care? The truth is – yes, we do.

We care because we want to know that we are living life as well as everybody else. In the world of social media, if you’re not posting fancy cocktails/lip-syncing videos with your pals/pictures of your steering wheel while driving – might I add, very fucking dangerous – then you’re not doing anything remotely enjoyable because you’re not flaunting it. We all want our peers to know that we are living a happy and fulfilled life, but is our narcissistic desire to flaunt our activities to the people we don’t really know outside of Facebook turning our real-life relationships into little more than a social puppet show?

In previous years, I’ve been for meals with groups of friends and not had a single conversation with any more depth than “have you seen so and so’s new car?” while languidly turning their phone around to show me the new wheels of somebody I’ve only ever seen on someone else’s news feed. However, I look on my Facebook feed after returning home and there are countless posts on how perfectly loquacious we’d been: “had the best lunch with my girls, haven’t laughed so much in ages xxxxxx #bestfriends #lunching #dayout”. When in reality, what they should have posted should have been something like this: “sat at a table for two hours on my phone posting about how much fun I was having rather than actually speaking #facebooksimportant #lookhowmuchfunimhaving #legitfriendshiprighthere #dontbelievemelookheresapictureofmyfood #ilaughedatapictureofacatfor2.5seconds”.

I’ve even seen young, attractive couples dolled up to the nines for a romantic evening in a beautiful restaurant with their phones so close to their face their corneas had their own keyboard. The majority of their evening dominated by taking 15 different pictures of each course, (if they’re lucky, they might even get their other half’s fancy watch in it), checking to see how many likes it had, and messaging their group chat about a football game or the last episode of Pretty Little Liars – before paying a bill of £85 for merely advertising the restaurant with a million hashtags of #datenight followed by a detailed description of each course.

Before I go too far in preaching holier than thou: I am guilty for it. Anybody who has me on any social media site will know that I am regularly posting pictures of my dog, plugs for my blog posts, and even the occasional selfie if my brow game is on point – but chances are I’m sitting in my pants eating peanut butter out of the jar so there is nobody there to neglect except for my own self-worth.

I spend a lot of time at home by the fire, I wear pyjamas more than actual clothes and I very rarely go out on the lash because my pathetic little liver will punish me before I’ve even left the house; but regardless of how content I am with being an eternally sleepy and anti-social hermit, I still envy the girls I see on weekends away with their boyfriends, or lunching with their best friend, or driving their sexy new wheels, and it makes my life appear to be that little bit less adequate. This compulsive desire to post monotonous hashtags to appear remotely interesting to others is not only making us envy the photographers of the better Instagram posts, but neglect the blessings that we already have.

Over the years, social media has developed from a convenient place to store photo’s and share your holidays with the family members you can’t be bothered to call, into a momentous, pansophical entity that thrives on our curiosity into the lives of strangers and our ignorance to the family sitting right next to us. Facebook, Snapchat, Skype and even Tinder mean we no longer have to venture outside of our house to socialise with anybody more than a few feet away, and this is our way of developing and maintaining a mountain of new relationships (yet often disposable).

It has its blessings of course, it means I can see my oldest friends bringing up their children, I can keep contact with friends I was once close with and know that we can still meet up if we want to, and I can get new make up tekkers by watching complete strangers pull stupid faces into a camera while blending their foundation and blinking too many times.

But it also means that we miss the important things. We can neglect our friends who are trying to talk to us about something important, we can lose days with our grandparents who just want to have a good old-fashioned conversation, and we can miss a movie revelation that is critical to the storyline so we end up pissing everyone off by asking why Gerard Butler looks like he’s just smelled a nasty fart.

I guess we need balance in every element of our lives, and this is one of them. The world won’t suddenly become a buzzing euphoria of flash mobs and conversations with strangers on public transport because some opinionated 23-year-old decided to rant about one time she went for dinner and didn’t get much attention, but if we all manage to find that balance somewhere within our own reason, then maybe, just maybe, technology won’t fully take over the world.

I doubt it though.

Mental Health: The Taboo No Longer

Being in your twenties and dealing with mental health is more common than you think these days. All you have to do is scroll through a few Tumblr posts or click on to a few articles from The Debrief and there is non-stop discussion about how to deal with depression, anxiety and other mental health issues that were formerly taboo.

The fact that what was once so fiercely shameful and private is now so prominent in day-to-day conversation is, I think, one of the most incredible things to come out of this generation. There are now countless charities and discussions about how to help those in emotional turmoil because their mind won’t stop telling them that nobody cares, and that is a wonderfully empowering thing.

I’m not claiming to have suffered with serious depression or anxiety or even compare myself to the severity that others experience, because I’m fortunate enough to have never been in a situation where I’ve truly felt like there was no way out. However, I have been in a situation where my head would simply not stop telling me that no matter what was happening, nobody gave a shit.

When I was 19 years old my parents split up, and although it was foreseeable, it didn’t make it any easier. We moved out of our family home that we had lived in for 16 years, and a divorce ensued. Shortly after, I moved into a new house at Uni with three friends I’d spent my entire first year with, but the honeymoon period was swiftly cut short when we had a monumental fall out and I ended up moving out, five months into our one year tenancy. At this point, I was alternating shelter at my then-boyfriend’s Uni house, one friend’s sofa and another friend’s bedroom when she went home on weekends. Not long after the divorce proceedings started, both parents then developed new relationships and my Uni grades were catastrophically falling.

I was at that point, and even today, very aware that although all of the above was difficult and all quite shitly timed, it would be categorized as a mere inconvenience in comparison to the problems of some of my other friends, who were going through traumas that were so incredibly worse than my own.

It was this mantra that made me tell myself on a daily basis that my problems were miniscule, and burdening my friends with such pitiful sob stories when they were fighting much stronger battles was utterly laughable. There were times where I tried to disclose my growing helplessness with select few individuals, but was often met with the terms “negativity spreads, you know”, or “at least you’ve got your health”. At that point though, I was truly beginning to feel like I didn’t.

It was at this point that I decided to take up counselling that was being offered to me by my University, and as relieving as it was to talk to somebody completely impartial, I knew in my head that I wouldn’t truly begin to feel better until I hit my lowest.

This followed shortly after.

I was back at my mum’s new house for Easter, and there was one night in particular where I’d argued with both my mum and my boyfriend – the only two people that I really spoke to about my situation. I was beginning to feel utterly helpless and even more frustrated because I felt like nobody understood. I spent the evening having an almighty battle with myself, rocking myself on the floor while crying floods of tears trying to fight the voice that just would not stop saying, “you could just end it all now you know, stop burdening others with your shit and just get it over with”.

That voice very nearly won that night - and a few nights thereafter - but I knew that this was it; this was my rock bottom. From that point on, I could win.

Looking back, I think I always was a bit of an oddball. Even as a child I reacted in the most awkward and embarrassing way possible to situations that most people would be able to simply shrug off – but people still loved me. I grew up with three best friends who lived next door; I had amazing friendship groups moving from first school to middle school, and middle school to high school; and from travelling at 18 and even through university and my working life thereafter, my life has been blessed with so many wonderful people whom I adore, who love me, and who – without even knowing it – pushed me through my darkest point.

I mean sure, I’m still a little bit weird; my mind is like a toilet, my language is foul and I’m one almighty needy fucker, but everybody has their own quirks, right?

The long and short of it is, no matter how widely mental health is recognised, it’s still happening; and it’s still happening because people think that their problems aren’t big enough to talk about. Well, if it’s doing anything other than making you enjoy the shit out of your life, then it’s big enough to talk about.

One major cliché we all come across in day-to-day life or on one of those wall stickers from Amazon that everybody has, is that “life is short” - and if 2016 taught me anything (by taking away my beloved Alan Rickman) it’s that this cliché is spot fucking on.

So talk about it. If you’ve lost your job, ended your relationship, struggling to find your feet or Aunt Flo is just taking the absolute piss with your hormones, then talk about it. The conversation might even end with a bag of minstrels – bonus.

Talk about it. Talk to your mum, dad, brother, sister, best friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, doctor or dog - even if you don’t want to do that, then talk to me. I understand, but they will too.

Writing this post wasn’t one of the easiest decisions I’ve ever made. This isn’t a topic I write about lightly and it wasn’t something I particularly wanted to be thrown across my Facebook feed for anybody to indulge in.

I may resent myself for telling you this story, I may re-read this in a few days and kick myself, and I may regret opening up that part of me again; but if there is one person who reads this relates to it and even uses it as ammunition to fight their own battle that little bit harder, then it was all totally worth it.

The Perils of Tinder Dating

I’ve been single for about a year now, and as someone who finds going out in public quite taxing, it doesn’t really make it very easy to meet someone new, y’know?

I was catching up with an old friend fairly recently who has also come out of a long-term relationship this year, and she had enlightened me to the wonderfully weird world of Tinder (dick pic galore, apparently. Charming).

Now, I’m not usually one for online dating – I’m not sure why, because I don’t exactly feel at home approaching random guys in the street for fear of rejection and/or dribbling. However, as the person who usually attends weddings as “the single one” and has pictures with the dog next to all the loved up couples in the family, I figured I had nothing to lose. 

So I’m not exactly expecting to fall madly in love with my Tinder matches, get impregnated and live happily ever after on an Austrian mountain with lots of chickens and goats; I’m actually just quite intrigued by the colossal amount of fascinating creatures you “swipe” across, with maybe a possible bonus of some relatively normal people you can actually have some interesting banter with.

I’ve been a user of the Internet’s sexiest programme for around 48 hours, and I’ve spent probably 84% of the time on this app being slightly terrified that it looks like I might, in fact, die alone. No matter where you live, your age range, interests or location radius, I will bet my favourite pyjama’s that you will come across any or all of these characters that will really make you wonder:

The Bodybuilder

Built like a brick shithouse, bald, probably a tribal tattoo on one of his bulging pectorals and following down his ginormous tree trunk of an arm to make a full sleeve, definitely topless in one or more photo’s and taking a selfie in the mirror either in the gym or in his bathroom, in other photo’s he’s out in the local nightclub with the boys wearing a very low v-neck and holding a bottle of beer with such tension in his arm that it’s almost making your eyes water. His bio says something about “living for the gym” and he’s probably a self-employed labourer (that would be handy to have around, though).

The Funny Guy

He’s in fancy dress in 5 out of 6 of his photo’s (there’s most likely a tutu in there somewhere), he’ll have a lovely, happy smile but you’re probably not quite sure whether he’s serious or not so swiping right is a bit unnerving. Besides, if you do match he’ll probably just end up asking to meet so he can flop around on top of you like a dead fish for 3 minutes before going back to his mates telling them how he made you scream with his wizard fingers (didn’t happen mate, wind your pencil dick back in). His bio probably says something sarcastic about being a volunteer at a shelter for abandoned puppies while also reading to the blind and housing the homeless, before confessing that it’s all a lie and he’s actually just a bit of a dick.

The Suited and Booted

Need I say more? There’ll be a fitted designer suit paired nicely with a dazzling luxury watch, a new Merc or BMW with a personalised number plate, an iced gem haircut, most likely a snap with some aviators on the lovely sands of Marbella and, of course, the compulsory Grey Goose shot in an overpriced City Centre cocktail bar. His bio will say something about being a “baller” and probably using the quote “work hard, play harder”. Lol, calm down Lance, wait til Daddy can’t keep you in his business cos you’re not supposed to molest the Receptionist.

The Spice Boy

Excruciatingly tight white shirt, surrounded by ‘his boys’, a summer full of Festivals, eyebrows better than yours (prick), but definitely not somebody who needs to be on Tinder because you know, he knows and his mother knows that he does a perfectly good job of porking and walking without the help of internet women throwing boob pics at him too. All of his photo’s have probably been taken on Snapchat with writing across the top and that flawless golden butterfly filter. His bio will have his snapchat name (compulsory, so he can send phallic photo’s and receive 10 second booby shots back) and will probably say something about Ibiza 2016 with the ladzzzzzz.

The Nice Guy

The only one you could probably justify taking home to your mum. His photo’s include outdoor adventures, maybe a few extreme sports, possibly a graduation photo, and he most likely has a dog. His bio actually describes him and his hobbies, but he probably won’t spark up conversation when you match, so you have to decide whether you want to take the mundane route with a simple “hey”, or a simple yet effective ice breaker: “Hey, why were the teachers eyes crossed? She couldn’t control her pupils!” Hahaha lol please love me.

You never know, though, love usually hits you when you least expect it. We’re not in 1936 anymore, and men don’t approach women in a library and woo them with a smooth line before driving off into the sunset with a picnic and 75 years of happy marriage ahead. Maybe Tinder is the way forward: Dick pics are the new love letters and naughty messages sent inappropriately too soon are the new throwing stones at the bedroom window.

We shall see.

What becomes of the broken hearted

I’ve fallen in love twice. Once when I was very young – 16 in fact – and it was one of the most overwhelming and confusing times of my life. The other time was much more recent – three years ago when I was at University. This was much more straight-forward and comforting, and I felt like I finally knew what all those songs played on Magic FM at 1.00am were about. But when they ended, by Christ Almighty did they hurt.

Being in love is one of the most uplifting and magical feelings a person can have. It feels like you’re being wrapped in a big, warm, soft towel straight out of the bath, or getting into crisp, clean bed linen after you’ve shaved your legs, or having that first spoonful of melted chocolate when PMT is being a complete and utter bitch. Nobody can tell you any different to what you know, which is that you are soaring on Cloud Nine and this person, the Ron to your Hermione, is everything you will ever need.

But sometimes, whether you are expecting it or not, when it all comes to an end, reality doesn’t half slap you like a bitch. Whether there’s infidelity, constant arguing, overwhelming control issues or even if there’s just no spark anymore, there are very few things that people can say to convince you that it will get better. But it does. Oh God, it really does.

When my heart was broken the first time I was nothing more than a pathetic puddle of tears and anxiety. I was 17 years old and, although we both knew our situation was only temporary and he was – and remains to this day – one of my dear friends, there was absolutely no consoling me. Luckily, I had an amazing group of girlfriends waiting for me with flowers, chocolates and a card telling me how much they loved me at school the next day (best boyfriend subs, ever). But I felt so utterly destroyed that I was adamant I would never let myself feel that way again.

That was, until I fell in love again.

Now, I didn’t think it was possible, but this one hurt even more. Weeks of restless nights, random outbursts of tears, anxiety and very little eating followed. I lost 9lbs in the two weeks after it ended (as shitty as it was, getting dumped really did do wonders for my figure). I couldn’t bare to leave the house incase I saw him, and although it was an amicable agreement and we separated as friends, I couldn't help but hate him for making me fall for him so hard that I couldn’t pick up the pieces when it crashed (not his fault, I know, but try telling an emotional woman that). Thankfully, I had the same group of amazing girlfriends – and one very cuddly housemate who kept feeding me Chinese food – to help me pick up said pieces and realise that actually, I am just one step closer to being happy again.

If you’ve been through (or are still going through) a break-up and have experienced the pain associated, you will know that as shitty and horrible and gross as it is, it’s part of life and nobody has a smooth sail all the way through. But if falling in love has taught me anything, it is that I am one f***ing strong woman and I can take any shit that this world throws at me, because if I can overcome those feelings, oh honey I can take on the world. And it should tell you exactly the same.

So, your Survival Kit 101 for mending a broken heart is as follows:

1. Surround yourself with your favourite people. You have no idea how much they will put everything into perspective.

2. Don’t starve yourself or binge eat. Honestly, neither option will make you feel any better. Stick to moderate rations and the occasional therapy session with Mr Ben and Mr Jerry.

3. For the love of God, don’t listen to an endless stream of soppy love songs from the 80s. I actually listened to a lot of Ludovico Einaudi, a relaxing tempo was quite distracting. Highly recommend.

4. Tell yourself every day that you are one step closer to being over it. You will feel like you’re talking a bit of arse, but one day you will actually believe it and believe me it is so empowering.

It’s not all a ballet-dancing, romantic-singing, puppy-cuddling love story in life, but batting out a home run when the Universe throws its shit at you will make you feel better than Andy Murray when he fiiiinnaalllyyy took home that Wimbledon trophy. This is coming from an overthinking, overemotional sack of sad potatoes, but trust me, it is possible; I’ve done it twice.

You got this, girl

Feminism. Empowerment. Almighty frickin' gloriousness.

These are all terms that intimidate the bejeezus out of me.

Feminism: Incase you haven’t noticed; I’m a woman, so naturally I will advocate the premise of gender equality until my face explodes. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that feminism is a topic that I touch on lightly.

Empowerment: Not really a term I would affiliate with myself, seeing as I’m a complete wimp in confrontation with a 94% chance of tears and/or dying if I come remotely close to a debate with someone. Unfortunately, confrontation and empowerment often come hand-in-hand – you have to face arguments and criticism when attempting to give any form of influence, right? So yeah, empowerment… *shudder*

Almighty frickin' gloriousness: Now this just speaks for itself. I hear this phrase and I picture Beyoncé, high and mighty on her throne of sunshine and gold, being fed crunchy red grapes by the Angel Gabriel himself while she sings sweet lullabies to the children of the highest order. This is not quite the scenario one comes across on a fortnightly basis.

Now, intimidating as these phrases may be when put into action, does that make it okay for us to avoid them completely and revert to ridicule and slander towards other women? I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve heard words with more kick than a sour apple bon bon being thrust in my direction by other women.

Sure, you might have good reason to wish crippling period pains and a lifetime of bad eyeliner on these girls that you may curse at. They could be your best friends new friend, your exes new girlfriend, that girl you went to school with who has always been so much prettier than you, or even the girl who had the audacity to turn up to a nightclub in an outfit slightly less exuberant than a wrap dress and 8 inch Louboutin's.

But I tell you what ladies, there is no better feeling than embracing the envy (because lez be real – that’s what it boils down to) and telling that girl she is a ten, because that’s exactly what women need: feminine empowerment and to be told they are almighty fricken' glorious. We have enough grief from creepy middle-aged men with more money than social skills and a willy stick small enough to shape your nose contour, so why is it so natural for women to despise each other before getting the chance to bond over Kim Kardashian and that guy from Towie with all the tattoos?

So how about this: go and high five your best friends new friend for having awesome taste in people you want to hang out with, be excited for your exes new girlfriend for finding happiness with someone that you were never going to be with forever anyway, tell that girl from school that she frickin' WERKS it like Sharon Needles in the RuPocalypse and she is awesome, and you tell that girl dressed a little more casually than everybody else that she is SLAYING because beauty is individuality.

With this philosophy, my darling girlfriends, we will be amazing. We will not have Feminism seen as an extremist movement trying to take over the world. We will not look wide-eyed at those that empower us and feel like we will never have that influence, because we ourselves will be empowering our sisters. And we will be oozing almighty frickin' gloriousness.

Introducing... an amateur's first run

Ambition:

noun
1. an earnest desire for some type of achievement or distinction, as power, honour, fame or wealth, and the willingness to strive for its attainment.

Delusion:

verb (used with object)

1. to mislead the mind or judgment of

It's easy to confuse the two. So easy in fact, it's deterred me from pulling myself off my backside and grabbing the life that I tell myself can happen.

For years I’ve been an absent daydreamer, staring intently out of windows and living a fantasy life in my mind as though I’m the glamorous centrepiece of an RnB music video. Of course, this is until the song finishes and I look down to realise that I’m sitting in my pants with crisps in my hair, and in my bewilderment I’ve spilled tea all over the carpet.

It’s the easiest thing in the world to set yourself a target and believe that you’ll prevail and be an Olympic athlete by Christmas, but one of life’s biggest challenges is when the day you begin your new lifestyle arrives and you’re as unprepared as Trump was for his commencement to Presidency. I mean sure, on Monday morning I’m going to run six miles and eat a goat’s cheese salad, but it’s a lot easier said than done when in fact you’ve spent the weekend binging on Pot Noodles and Pringles with a cigarette break at 30 minute intervals.

I’m still as unprepared for adulthood now as I was when I left the utero, and the thought of publicly putting on the running shoes and attempting the first few steps makes me feel slightly terrified, if not a little bit whoozy. But you’ll never learn how to swim if you don’t go in the deep end, right? You’re much better off learning before you inhale a shit load of water and die.

Inspirational sporting metaphors aside, expressing myself through the art of linguistics is one thing I would often pride myself on, (that and my insuppressible ability to laugh hysterically at my own jokes), so for you, dear readers, I am finally going to put on the running shoes and try to persuade you to agree that I am, in fact, almost as good as I think I am. You may not laugh at my jokes (if you do, high five), but I promise that I will try to brighten your days with some crude anecdotes and an awkwardly relatable insight to adulthood, if you'll let me.

In my life I’ve procrastinated almost everything I’ve done, but up to this point it's still allowed me to live. I’ve travelled the world, made lifelong friendships, had vicious fallouts, moved house (more times than your average nomad), fallen in love, had a broken heart, embarrassed myself, impressed myself, hated myself and loved myself – so this should be enough inspiration to create some relatively interesting reads, right?

Here’s hoping.