At any given moment, you do not exist. Your body exists, temporary though it may be. Still, you are not your body. You are merely an electrochemical process of your body. The continuity of your separate self is manufactured every few milliseconds by a hunk of warm grey meat between your ears. In the time it takes you to read this sentence, your brain has created you a thousand times, and it has left behind a thousand ghosts of you.
The other day I got bombarded by people asking for a response to this video. First, I need to make a few points clear:
1. If a girl deliberately sleeps with another girl’s boyfriend, her problem isn’t being a slut. Her problem is having a sociopathic lack of integrity.
2. If a girl gets accidentally pregnant and wants to keep the baby for all the wrong reasons, her problem isn’t being a slut. Her problem is one of contraception and general immaturity.
3. If a girl chooses anal or oral sex instead of vaginal sex as a means of rationalization, her problem isn’t being a slut. Her problem is the ignorance that stems from antiquated notions of virginity.
4. If a girl gets so sloppy drunk at the club that she makes poor sexual decisions, her problem isn’t being a slut. Her problem is alcohol abuse, and the larger problem is men who think it’s okay to take advantage of a woman when she’s drunk.
The first major failing of Jenna’s video is that she confuses these various problems of ignorance, immaturity, lack of integrity, and alcohol abuse with being a slut. Why does she do this? Well, because sex is involved, and Jenna’s personal hang-ups about sex cloud her ability to empathize with other women.
Jenna is like most girls in this regard. She faults other women who rationalize their sexual behavior, but fails to recognize that her silly argument for the evolutionary superiority of monogamy is just a rationalization of her own sexual choices.
She is blind to her internalized misogyny and totally unaware that she has been culturally programmed to judge a woman, as she puts it, “by the contents of her mouth, butthole, and vagina.”
Jenna openly admits to judging by “how many dicks do you put in your body on a regular basis.” This is slut shaming at its most insidious, and of course, it is also the second major failing of Jenna’s video.
The third major failing of Jenna’s video is that it’s just not funny. It doesn’t matter if she announces that it’s not going to be funny. If she comes out doing her schtick, she’s gotta be funny. That’s why we watch her instead of the million other ranting lunatics on YouTube.
So yeah, Jenna fucked this one up big time. It’s all just a bunch of confused, unfunny slut-shaming, and at this point, I hope she knows it. Of course, none of this is unforgivable, especially if she’s willing to admit that she’s wrong.
I’m looking forward to the apology, and I hope it’s funny.
Los Angeles is a study in attenuation.
The sunset is attenuated as it pierces through the rush hour smog. Your cell phone signal is attenuated as it bounces up and through the canyons. Dreams are attenuated as they grind through the celebrity machine.
The process of attenuation is this city’s preferred method of chaos, because it is a delicate rhythm of scattering and absorption. Of all the flavors of entropy, attenuation renders the most graceful patterns of annihilation.
The Olsen twins collaborated with Damien Hirst to come up with a limited edition crocodile backpack adorned with prescription pills.
It’s priced at $55,000. Yes, that’s fifty-five thousand dollars.
Twelve of these tacky obscenities will be made, proving there are at least a dozen super-rich art-tards who will buy anything with Hirst’s name on it.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but when publishers start throwing around Hillary Clinton money for a book proposal by a “rare literary talent,” I certainly expect more than this.
It’s not funny. It’s not insightful. It’s not the least bit entertaining. It’s just a tepid exercise in neurotic navel gazing by a privileged white girl from New York who just happens to have her own show on HBO.
That’s fine, I suppose. The folks at Random House can squander their millions however they see fit, and kudos to Lena for cashing in on her Woody Allen meets Candace Bushnell schtick.
Still, in a book that purports to be about advice, you’d think the voice of a generation might have something to say about the world that exists beyond the end of her nose.
Then again, maybe not, and maybe that’s the larger point about a generation.
Dear Royal Highness, Fetus of Middleton,
Congratulations on your recent conception! On behalf of all Americans who are inappropriately fascinated with the monarchy, I’d like to say how excited we are to hear you’ll be making your way into the world sometime next Summer.
Kudos to you for being the lucky zygote with the legal claim to the British throne. It doesn’t matter whether you eventually become a girl or a boy, as it seems the Realms of the Commonwealth have recently done away with the centuries old law of primogeniture. How very progressive of them to spice up the divine right of kings with a dash of postmodern gender politics!
I do so hope you’ll turn out to be a princess. Word on the street is that if you’re a girl, your parents might name you Diana. You’re much too young to appreciate the irony, but I know your grandfather and great-grandmother will be keeping a stiff upper lip about the possibility of England eventually being ruled by a Queen Diana.
Speaking of princesses, I was terribly sorry to hear that your mother was recently hospitalized. It seems she was suffering from Hyperemesis Gravidarum, which apparently is a spell they teach at Hogwarts to make muggle-born princesses vomit for two straight days. I hear she’s feeling much better now, so that’s good news.
Have a wonderful time being groomed for the throne. Never forget that it’s all just an elaborate game, and try not take any of it too seriously. If your head ever gets heavy from the crown, just do a little neck yoga, and remember to stop and smell the rose petals beneath your feet.
The entire world looks forward to meeting you in a few months, but for now, just enjoy being in the womb. It’s the most privacy you’re ever going to get.
Yours in a tiara,
Someone wrote in asking how things were going in my life. They noticed I hadn’t posted any fresh shenanigans, and that these days I seemed like more of an icon than a person.
Icon. That made me laugh. Honestly, the world has been beating the shit out of me lately. I haven’t been posting about my personal life because I’d rather not bitch and moan on the internet.
On the bright side, Americans are stockpiling Twinkies while Israel gears up for another fucking holy war. Good times.
I just want to curl up in bed until 2013.
“It’s so much better to be an ex-girlfriend than it is to be an ex-wife”
Oh sweet baby Jesus! Somebody finally fuckin gets it!
I forgot to mention this before, but copies of Notes To My Future Husband are available here.
Thanks so much for reading!
Dear Red States,
There’s been a lot of post-election talk about unifying the country, so I’m writing to you on behalf of the blue states, in the hopes of chipping away at some of the bitter divisiveness.
You see, I’ve lived on both sides of the great American political divide. I was born and raised in a God-fearing, gun-toting, Fox-News-watching red state, a place that refers to itself as the Heartland. My family members are all conservative, church-going Republicans. They are good, honest, self-made people — the very job creators that guys like Mitt Romney are always talking about.
Of course, as soon as I was old enough to drive, I made my way to the other side of the country, all the way to California, the bluest of blue states filled with godless Hollywood liberals, pro-choice homosexual union members and other assorted socialist heathens that filled the nightmares of my right-wing parents.
I am intimately familiar with the rift in America’s socio-political landscape. I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to bridge the divide between red state and blue state, and it’s never been more difficult than during this past election year.
Politics have polarized this country to such a degree that the two sides don’t even represent the same realities. I watched time and again as cold hard facts were debated as if they were political opinions. I’ve bitten my tongue as tempers flared, because everything has become so deeply personal. Respectful disagreement doesn’t even seem possible anymore, because both sides aren’t just defending their politics — they’re defending their identities.
Thankfully, the election has come and gone. The worst is over for now, and we can all go back to our regular lives. The Democrats happened to win the day, but under slightly different circumstances, it could have been the Republicans. It might as well have been a coin toss for all the stress and anger it’s caused us, and perhaps that’s the most glaring irony of this process. Half of this country votes red, and half of this country votes blue. We’re two sides of the same coin that gets flipped every four years so that a tiny sliver of undecided swing staters can call it in the air.
I for one am tired of all the divisiveness. We have our differences of opinion, and that’s okay. We shouldn’t let our politics come between us. Now how about we all sit down for an election-free Thanksgiving dinner, and finally talk about something else?
Yours in America,