vanity, anyone

So many new followers that have been kind enough to stop by, feel free to treat this post as a REVERSE STARTER CALL. Meaning I’ll come bug you via IM tomorrow, go hunt down your meme tag and send you something, or both. Who the fuck knows. 



a couple days of jammin

Top 10 songs I'm currently in love with

I was tagged by Ben @abeautifulrestart (and I’m just going to point out that I’m v v offended that fucking poppy was on your list jfc)

1) I did it - Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats
2) Human - Rag'n'bone Man
3) Underdog - Kasabian
4) Snap out of it - Arctic Monkeys
5) Angel of small death and the codeine scene
- Hozier
6) The big smoke (both parts yo) - Tash Sultana
7) the less I know the better - Tame Impala
8) St James Infirmary- Louis Armstrong & His Savoy Ballroom Five
9) I Am - Nathaniel Rateliff
10) Re-Wired - Kasabian

I tag @fuck-0f-f @cassabian @flynn-on-fire @ghastly–bespoke @noelsfielding @theasianintheseafoamgreen

“What, are you worried about stretchmarks? Women who don’t want children are just so vain...”


I’ve seen waaay too many young mums with fake eyelashes, fake tans and fake breasts to let this one slide. 

Physical vanity has very little to do with whether you’re a parent or not. 

We’re all vain - whether that manifests in the childfree woman who gets her hair cut and coloured the way she likes, or the mum who makes sure her children are clean, neatly-ironed-uniforms and shiny-shoes before they leave for school. They’re a reflection of her. It’s all still vanity.

And is it a crime? Taking care in your physical appearance doesn’t harm anyone else. 

Vanity isn’t a major factor for me in childfree, but if I met somebody for whom it was a big deal, I wouldn’t judge them. You only get one body. It’s cool to care about it - rather than blindly turn it into a mere conduit for other bodies to enter the world.

Weird, how two completely polar stereotypes exist about childfree women: first, the vain and pampered winkle-free forty-something who has a different set of acrylic nails every week, and winces snobbishly at the mere thought of stretchmarks or vomit stains; and second, the sad and frumpy childfree spinster who spends her day peering narrow-eyed through her net curtains at the children outside, beige clothes and bird nest hair, oblivious to how undesirable and strange she is.

And for the record, I’ve got stretchmarks. They’re not some kind of noble badge of honour bestowed only upon mothers.