Coffee Table

The coffee table in my flat looks a little strange.

There is a houseplant (Evil Flatmate’s).
There is a tea-stained mug (mine).
There is an issue of Cosmopolitan (EF’s).
There is a copy of The Vagina Monologues (mine).

I’m not sure what this shows, but it must show something.

Also, I have decided that I really hate women’s magazines. I shall add them to my list of drivel-purveyors, if I haven’t already.

I used to merely get annoyed with them, but now I can’t actually touch the damned things. Which is probably because there was a Big! Scary! True! Story! about how the only man that you ever have to worry about is the rich one, you know, that you’d normally think was really Hot! because he’s rich (duh! what was I thinking?). Secretly, Rich Hot Man is a Date-Rapist in disguise.

Now, I’m not saying that’s not true, but how about you make use of the fucking statistics, Cosmo? How about you don’t scare women with the less-likely option, when all of your articles about how to please “your man” in bed – even when you’re not in the mood yourself – are just another symptom of the fucked-up rape culture we live in? How about you tell women that yes, their husbands can rape them, their boyfriends or ex-husbands or ex-boyfriends can, and that actually, they’re far, far more likely to know their attacker?

Also, how about you remember that not every woman fancies men?
Fuck you, Cosmopolitan. You do not live up to your name.

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One Comment on “Coffee Table”

  1. A Cuban In London says:

    The houseplant sips tea whilst reading Cosmo and having a tete-a-tete with the Vagina Monologues, thus turning it into the Vagina Dialogues.

    Greetings from London.


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