I’ll glorify whatever I want to glorify and I’ll have skewed opinions on things just like you do.

What if somebody said or did something bad once, and I still like them?  Is that so terrible?  Somebody once said something undeniably racist/sexist/puppyist/horrid and yetsomehowI’ve not let that one action define them, in the same way that when somebody does something that is nice and good and kind, you do not tend to judge every other action by that.  You stay present.

There seems to be this whole boycotting mentality, “Something bad was said/done, the best way to deal with it is to LET EVERYONE KNOW WHO DID IT AND BERATE THOSE WHO DON’T JOIN US IN OUR BOYCOTTING AND JUDGEMENT of the person/company/band/puppy”

How many people have sat down and written something in an attempt to educate the wrong-doer?  And I don’t mean some smarmy, sarcastic blog post (something like this one) filled with passive aggression and condescension.  I mean, a sincere explanation.  A “Hey, all personal things aside, that’s not necessarily the case, and when things like this get said/done, these things tend to follow, so if you consider that, it would probably be productive.”

I mean, it sounds terribly soft and juvenille, but you know what, whenever you make some aggressive, smart ass blog post article comment letter, you’re merely masturbating.  You’re writing an argument to an audience that already agree with you.  So everyone will reblog, passionately, with YEAH’s, and you’ll probably feel good and justified, but what the fuck have you actuallydonehere, except for started off a circle jerk? 

Let’s say some bad-person does come across what you’ve written, and it’s pushy and argumentative and patronising.  They’re going to get defensive.  Without even paying attention to what you’ve written, they’re going to pick up on the tone and want an argument, they’re going to want to hold their own regardless of how strongly they feel about it. 

Probably, who am I to know, really?  What I mean is that I’m sick of all the posts on all the blogs that either tellmeoff for something ridiculous (eg. I read a book by someone who once made a comment which, interpreted in one particular way, advocates rape), or invite others to join in some over-enthusiastic hate.  Directionless hate.  As though hate alone might help win the fight against hate that already exists. 

I’m going to unfollow everyone except d0gbl0g.tumblr.com.

mrgolightly:

croatoan: sleepingwithmonsters:

Cynthia Nixon, forever Miranda and now starring in Wit on Broadway, spoke to the New York Times about her relationship with partner Christine Marinoni, and the controversy her opinion has stirred:

I gave a speech recently, an empowerment speech to a gay audience, and it included the line “I’ve been straight and I’ve been gay, and gay is better.’” And they tried to get me to change it, because they said it implies that homosexuality can be a choice. And for me, it is a choice. I understand that for many people it’s not, but for me it’s a choice, and you don’t get to define my gayness for me. A certain section of our community is very concerned that it not be seen as a choice, because if it’s a choice, then we could opt out. I say it doesn’t matter if we flew here or we swam here, it matters that we are here and we are one group and let us stop trying to make a litmus test for who is considered gay and who is not.

She then added:

Why can’t it be a choice? Why is that any less legitimate? It seems we’re just ceding this point to bigots who are demanding it, and I don’t think that they should define the terms of the debate. I also feel like people think I was walking around in a cloud and didn’t realize I was gay, which I find really offensive. I find it offensive to me, but I also find it offensive to all the men I’ve been out with.

PREACH.

hmmm

HOW IN THE MOTHERFUCK DO YOU SAY PREACH TO THIS? Are you fucking serious? She is obviously a bisexual woman, and saying that it’s a “choice” for everyone else just completely takes away from us actual gays. We so don’t fucking choose to be gay. If we could choose, don’t you think we would probably choose a cozy life free of harassment from bigots? I have just lost all respect for this woman. She is talking out of her fucking ass.

I guess the point that’s sadly being missed here is that she’s not saying it’s a choice for everyone.  She’s saying it was a choice for her.  And if one human being feels a certain way, you can’t even begin to deny that they do.  It has absolutely nothing to do with you, and asking somebody to change their feelings, or rather lie about them for the sake of a certain community doesn’t seem to be very fair.  Demanding that all people who consider themselves homosexual should state the same thought process, feelings and opinions on their sexuality in order to prove* that they’re gay feels a bit out of place for me.  And I suppose, if other people want to say preach to it, or find something they agree with in it, you also can’t deny that.  Sexuality might be a subject that feels heavier than others which is understandable, but just like when one person hates that new album and the other tells them “you’re wrong!  It’s the best thing to ever happen to music!”, there can’t be a right or wrong, we’re all just forming opinions and there can’t be a standard to live up to.

Y’know.  In my opinion.

*She is obviously a bisexual woman, and saying that it’s a “choice” for everyone else just completely takes away from us actual gays.

When I was younger I was diagnosed with depression.  I know, I know, so was everyone, at some point in their life, when they got sad.  This is not a ‘I am special’ post.  

It’s just that lately I’ve been thinking about it.  I’ve had a couple (more than a couple, I suppose) of outbursts of negative emotions that I can’t seem to control.  They’re usually nonsensical, there’s certainly no process to them, no link to anything external, just the bad feelings.  I’ll become unusually sad and want to cry for hours on end.  Or I’ll be so frustrated and angry that I can’t figure out how to converse with anyone without telling them off, I can barely figure out how to be by myself without making things bad for myself.

A problem with this is that I panic, somewhat, when I feel this way because I stopped getting treatment for any mental problems I may or may not have quite some time ago.  It seemed like a success, like I’d gotten over the ‘problems’, or at least like I’d learnt to cope without help.  Which, obviously, I must have, because here I am, coping.  Only, when I feel bad it brings up the question of whether or not it could all spiral downward again, just like it did when I was younger.  I always wonder if I’m supposed to be getting treatment, one way or another, for something that may or may not be wrong with me.  

I have a book, The Myth of Mental Illness, I’m sure you can figure out what it’s about.  If you consider what profession I’d like to go into and my past, you might understand both my interest in this book, and why it makes me a tad uncomfortable to think about.  

I ca.. I stopped to eat a cheese toastie and now it’s going to take me a moment to remember my point.  Oh!  Right.  So basically, I’m scared that I have some kind of an illness that is irreversible on account of being a part of my personality.  That the only way I can be bearable or enjoy life properly is to take medication and sit down with a psychologist on a regular basis.

This thought is often fought off by the fact that the people I love never tell me I’m impossible to live with or that they wish I was different, and that they listen to my problems just as a psychologist, I suppose, would.  And I think I prefer their unscripted, unplanned responses to the carefully thought out conversation of a professional.  

I wonder if depression is anything but me feeling bad and needing an excuse.  If there’s nothing wrong in my life, maybe there’s something wrong with me.  Yet if I feel happy for no good reason, it’s just a good day.  Overwhelming sadness is just a feeling like all the others, and I’m just a person who occasionally needs a day (or a week) to feel like shit.  The label scares me, as does the cure.

To take it by each moment, rather than diagnose myself in the long-term (I am Rosie and I suffer from depression has such negative connotations that stretch out far into my future), seems like the better way.  I am Rosie and today I don’t feel good.  I am Rosie and today I really don’t feel good.  I am Rosie and today I feel okay.  It’s more comfortable, it’s less frightening, and it doesn’t make me feel like I’m some sort of a victim of something.  

Anyway, today I feel fine.  It’s raining and I have a heavy week of work ahead of me, the washing up’s not done, the flat’s a mess and I have to go shopping out in the cold with not too much money, but I feel okay.  For no good reason, too.  

albinwonderland:

“I Have No Female Friends”

bwlivingwell:

We’ve all heard it before. Sometimes with regret and a hint of longing, but most often with a sense of pride:

A girl or woman says, “I have no female friends”.

What usually follows is a story detailing how different or better the female friendless-woman is in comparison to others of her gender. Or how she was scorned and rejected by other “catty” women and found solace with the guys.

“I have no female friends” is a method used by women to separate themselves from other women. Whether they’ve been excluded and despised by other women, are unsure of how to relate to them, or simply believe that to be a woman means to be lesser than, the mentality has the same origin: the devaluation of women and femininity.

Continue reading at A Lofty Existence..

Great article, well written and worth reading. I used to be one of these girls. 

Things like this confuse me.  I am as much against the assumption that women should be a certain way as I am against the assumption that they shouldn’t be a certain way.  For example, fighting the female stereotype doesn’t mean boycotting anything you love that a “stereotypical” [whatever that means] female would love.  At the same time, I shouldn’t feel under pressure to fall in love with those things just because I’m female.  I barely even understand what a female is any more.  

I do not have many female friends.  Possibly no more than two.  Certainly no close female friends.  I don’t say this with pride or shame.  Sometimes I get a little down about it, that’s not for anyone’s benefit but my own:  I want to complain about things that only another female could understand.  If I start telling my friends about my boobs or my period, even certain experiences I’ve had that, whether I like it or not, apply to me only because I’m female, there’s some awkward atmosphere attached.  There’s a lack of understanding, there’s an uncomfortable feeling around it.  Sometimes I just want a friend who’s a girl.  

At the same time, I have a hard time being friends with girls because I did have horrible experiences with being friends with girls, I had a bad time with the expectations that came with it, and though I’m certain I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can in no way judge all women based on that experience, I can’t seem to get myself comfortable around females.  I have a really hard time with it.  

I grew up thinking my big brother was the best thing in the world, and, male or not, his interests quite often became mine.  I just happen to be friends with a few of my brother’s friends, now, and growing up with him has probably helped that.  But my other friends, all male, came to be my friends by chance.  Sat in a pub with a selection of people, I would find that conversation would flow much better with the males.  I hate the cynical assumption that that’s because one or both of us wanted it to flow better on account of some attraction to one another.  I really don’t think that’s ever what it is.  I think it’s just the damage that my time spent being close with girls has done to me: I’m too scared to get close to any again.  

So I’m not ashamed of my gender in any way, I’m perfectly happy to be a girl.  I like glitter and flowers and baby animals, and I don’t like fashion or clothes shopping or jewellery.  And I’m not saying that those things are feminine, I’m just saying that people assume that they’re feminine, and there are some things under that category that I enjoy, and some things I don’t.  I’m not proud or ashamed of any of it, it’s just the way I am.  As a person, rather than a girl.  I would never consider myself sexist, I strive to ignore gender as best as I can, but I don’t like being accused of sexism, or even of being ashamed about my gender, just because I don’t or do like a certain thing, just because I don’t have any female friends and I’ll talk about it.  

Reading an article about feminism and wanting to write my opinion on it is in no way similar to going on a really long walk just because somebody you don’t like went on a really long walk and you want to prove that you can do it in less time.  

When I was fourteen I so desperately wanted to be loved.  I had the imagination of a thousand little kids but the one thing I couldn’t come up with was how that felt.  I wanted to be admired, adored, whatever, I wanted all of that.  Some of that.  My self esteem was non-existent, I felt like a monster among normal people.  Getting through the day without offending anyone with my appearance and personality felt difficult enough, getting affection was an impossibility.

But by the time I was sixteen it turned out I’d been wrong and a handful of people had taken a shine to me.  I was somewhat wanted, some idiots even bothered using the word love.  All of a sudden I was hugely concerned with my own feelings.  This was what I’d wanted, but I didn’t really love, at all.  I tried to, I tried to be affectionate, even to just want to spend time with these people, but nothing much happened in me.  Everything stayed still.  I got pretty fond of a couple, but it was basically nothing.  And so for the next little while my life was full of questions like ‘why are you so stuck up?’ and ‘why can’t you just give him a chance?’  What I learnt was that I was incredibly selfish, far too picky and that I probably had only a tiny amount of affection to offer.  

Like love is something in me, already, like it’s blood that I was born with that pumps around me, like if I let it bleed out I’ll go dizzy and faint so I keep it all for myself.  But that’s bollocks.  It’s not already in me, it’s all over me and all over these walls and in every bit of air.  It’s not as though you can own a piece but you can grab some and feel it.  All I ever saw, though, were dull faces and all I ever heard were sentences that fell into the back of my head with all the rubbish, so I never grabbed a single bit of anything like love because I didn’t feel like it.  There was nothing wrong with that.

Inability to love.  Not an ounce of care in you.  Completely void of romance.  You’re just like your father.

But I would see pictures and fill up with something like love, I’d watch the sun come up and feel something like love, I’d watch Roo play in the garden and something like love would be on the tip of my tongue.  I was feeling something, and I was sure it was romantic, care, love, it just wasn’t for someone’s face or words.  And frustrating as it was, I was okay with that slight rift, because I got to stir up my feelings with love, and I knew how it felt to be wanted, I just hadn’t managed the two simultaneously.  I figured that it was just a chance to love everything that wasn’t another person, I’d hate to get distracted from loving everything else there is.  

Eventually I did get fond of another person, I called it affection and then, after a bit, I happily called it love.  I suppose I was happy to do it because it felt like looking at the pictures I loved and the sunrises I loved and hearing the sounds I loved or breathing in the smells I loved.  

I can’t speak for everyone, but I was brought up on the idea that being unique is the absolute best thing I can be.  I’ve always been a little odd, or maybe I just flatter myself, a little quieter than most people, ideas a bit more strange than some.  No matter what insults were thrust at me there was always the comfort that I was being unique, being myself.  Because everywhere I looked, that was hugely important and worthy of a reward.  Think of all the underdogs in all the films, the unexpected heroes, the bizarre protagonists you fall in love with.  They’re never straight-forward and average.  But here’s where I start to contradict myself - what the fuck is straight-forward and average when it comes to a personality?  And, by default, aren’t we all unique?  No matter what you do, you will be yourself, whatever that is or turns into.  It’s impossible for you to be anyone else, and so it’s impossible for you, or me, to be anything but unique.  

But I suppose that brings about the idea that everyone’s unique.  And I guess that takes away the fun of it.  I mean, let’s say you’re taught that being unique is so important, so special, such an attribute, then don’t you want to be as unique as you can be?  Don’t you want to be a little more unique than that guy?  Yeah, if you’re the most unique, then you’re probably the best, the most special.  

We seem to struggle to remember that it can’t be measured.  While we have to accept that we just are, y’know, unique, one of a kind, whatever, we have to remember that everyone else is, too.  And that none of our intricacies or differences are any bigger or smaller than anyone else’s.  We all fall into this trap of believing that everyone else is more or less the same, that we’re the protagonist, the main character, the underdog-hero, we’re special.  I’m fucking special and you’re all just a grey blur in the background of a universe which is my life.  Yeah.  

I can’t speak for everyone, though.

This year on November the fifth I was in Newquay to see my sister.  My mum and dad came with me because they too like my sister, probably, actually, a bit more than I do.  We spent all day driving down there and I was quite excited about being devoid of the internet - I spend an unhealthy amount of time doing nothing useful.  I had my sketchbook and my notebook and my actual books and some money, and I just wanted to pretend that people didn’t exist for a bit, go back to when I didn’t really know anyone, like.  Because there was a time when I really didn’t know anyone, so all I had time to do was find things I liked.  Miserable as it was, I was never self conscious because no one was paying any attention.  

Regardless, we got there, and I carried three peoples’ worth of luggage to the room in the Travelodge because my parents are decidedly useless shits who had better things to do.  I marched on in and dumped everything and did what I always do upon entering a hotel: I turned the bathroom lights on and stood in there for a second.  It’s stupid, it’s like shaking hands with the room.  I can’t sit down in a hotel room if I haven’t switched the lights on in the bathroom and stood in there, there’s untouched territory and that’s uncomfortable.  Once I’d done that I put all the bags in that little corner they give you, except my bag.  My bag got put at the end of that shitty sofa thing that the third person sleeps on.  I put on some mascara and brushed my teeth because apparently we were off out.  

We walked to my sister’s and everybody must have been talking for a bit, I don’t know, I was straight for the rat.  I like Squeak, I’m sure I’ve mentioned her before, she’s lovely.  If you let her go where she likes she will find the nearest foot and bite it.  I don’t know why she does that.  Anyway, I don’t know how it passed but all of a sudden people were singing my name at me, we had to go, we had a table booked at six.  A big old pizza place with an obnoxious waitress who was fun, apparently.  I just don’t like people who talk to me like they enjoy it when they’ve no reason to.  I said I wanted some water, my sister’s boyfriend told me to have something proper, I said I wanted some water, my mum told me to have something proper, I said I wanted some water, the waitress, who had, by this time, figured out my name, was saying “come on, Rosie, have a proper drink”, I asked for a Jack and Coke hurriedly and felt stupid.  When she came back they’d run out, so my sister ordered some other whiskey and lemonade for me.  I felt really, really stupid, and for that brief time in that restaurant managed to convince myself that they did have plenty of Jack Daniels, but she thought it was a shitty drink to order so she wouldn’t let me have it.  

I ate this pizza, it was lovely, it was amazing, it exceeded all things a pizza should be.  I don’t think I even talked to anyone, I hadn’t eaten all day and it was perfect, maybe I looked up a few times to tell people that my pizza was perfect, I don’t know.  I finished before everyone else and tried to look out the windows.  Floor to ceiling wall to wall windows, but it was night, so I could only just make things out.  Would have been able to see the sea, too, and it was windy.  I could make out some trees though.  

Before I’d managed a single solid conversation with anyone we were walking up this quiet hill.  It was covered in dry mud, all dusty and that.  We were sheltered from the wind, so we could hear it howling but it barely touched us.  Then we reached the road, though, and it hit me in the face, same as all the people walking in the same direction.  My dad decided that now would be a good time to race me.  He’d had a drink, he’s usually far too reserved to do anything remotely noticeable among that amount of people.  We got to where we were supposed to be, in front of this fence, on this grass, overlooking this beach.  The fireworks were already going off. 

Everybody seemed to split off, you know like when you see germs or microscopic anythings and they’re splitting into two, then four, then eight.  I don’t know, it was odd, everybody found a space and got comfortable, dug their feet into the ground and stood there.  I just wanted to watch the fireworks but I couldn’t help but watch the people.  My mum and dad sat on the fence together, my sister and her boyfriend stood and hugged.  In pity, my mum tried to pull me over, she wanted me to sit with them.  I know it’s petty, but I didn’t want to.  I didn’t want to be there with my parents, I didn’t want it to be my mum my dad and me, that felt so shit.  I decided I was best off digging my feet into the ground right where I was and standing on my own, having my own space.  Yeah, fuck it, I’m here for the fireworks.  I wanted to tell someone what I thought of the fireworks.  Or just turn to someone and check they were watching the fireworks.  I wanted to tell someone how cold I was.  ”Look how much I’m shivering”, “How’ve you managed to come out without a coat?”, “Are these fireworks quiet or am I just desensitised to loud noises now?”  Nothing, though.  A lot of things to say, no one to say them to.  It occurred to me to text someone.  Pull out my phone and declare “I’m watching fireworks, they’re not very loud,” but no.  That’s not really the kind of thing I want to say to anyone in my phonebook.  

All this and fireworks still being beautiful and big and lovely and glittery right there above me, my eyes going in and out of focus, nice.  That’s nice.  But I couldn’t concentrate on it.  They stopped and some people clapped and I put my head down and turned around.  I didn’t want to see anyone who had been stood behind me, they had, after all, been able to see me for the past twenty minutes.  I marched back to the hotel, mostly separate from everyone else.  I felt like a stroppy little kid but no one seemed to take it that way, there was just some concern.  My dad decided it would be good to take me to the pub.  It wasn’t.

From what I can remember, Disney’s Pocahontas is a film that focuses on respect for nature and understanding between cultures.  ”These movie may not go along with the exact stry, but it has the true meaning. This movie is a great example of how war is aweful and that no matter what race we are we can come together” said Youtube’s gym18linz.  Obviously he or she got the message that was intended.  Or at least I think he or she did.  I’m not entirely sure.  Regardless, I remain more concerned with the personalities and relationships between characters and how they go alongside this general message.  

See, there’s John Smith.  He quickly establishes himself as the lead male with his appearance and American accent.  It’s pretty normal for Disney films to take any group of people in their films that aren’t from the US and give them all a fairly ugly appearance and their proper accents, except one, that one usually being the lead male.  (Aladdin, for example.)  Within minutes of the film starting he’s thrusting his bravery and caring ways at everyone.  He even points out that no one would do the same for him.  Kind of ungracious but whatever.

Pocahontas, in all her pretty Native Indian loveliness, shows up as an adventurous, spiritual character, constantly shown appreciating nature and chatting with animals who don’t chat back.  She’s described as spirited at one point, fairly standard stuff for a Disney girl.  She’s almost a carbon copy of Belle from Beauty and the Beast with her yearning for adventure and disregard for the local swoon-merchant.  

Kocoum, an attractive guy who’s proven himself in battle and impressed the chief (Pocahontas’ dad) with his killings.  Pocahontas detests him for his seriousness and, despite her later protests to John Smith and all of her peace preaching, she doesn’t seem to bare the pride Kocoum takes in his violence in mind when complaining about him.  The guy is pretty boring, though, nice and caring and all, but dull as anything.  Bad luck she’s got an arranged marraige with him, though we all know that goes out the window.

See, despite Pocahontas’ basic fear of committing to one person in case she’s missing out on fun elsewhere, when she meets John Smith she goes right for him.  Before that can happen, though, we’re better acquainted with the villain of the story: Ratcliffe.  The guy wants all the gold (GOLD!) in Native India and John Smith and the rest of the ‘half witted peasants’ are going to do it for him.  Of course, they’re going to kill any “savages”, as they call them, that get in their way, and I feel that it should be noted by anyone watching that just as Ratcliffe is picked out as a nasty villain for referring to the workers with an ugly term like that, the workers should be picked out as nasty villains for using another ugly term.  But John Smith is awful pretty so I don’t know if that comes across.  

Ratcliffe is, of course, ugly and fat. He dresses decadently and ridiculously and has a silly little (adorable) dog.  He also comes complete with effeminate sidekick and total comic relief tool, Wiggins.  A skinny, camp, twitchy little guy.  They finish up plans as the boat ..uh.. pulls up(?) to shore and an excited John Smith looks at the beautiful scenery (it really is fucking beautiful- I love animation) and sets out to do that gold digging, savage killing shit that they planned to do.  He pisses off, of course, adventurous feller that he is, and stumbles upon our Pocahontas, who also got into this position because of her inability to not wander about looking for things.  

Meanwhile, the village is in a frenzy of fear trying to figure who on earth these people are, why they’ve shown up and what they can do to protect themselves.  I’m sure a bunch of research went into the traditional beliefs here, and that they were then all, quite literally, disneyfied for the sake of a film that didn’t get too into semantics.  They’re right to be scared, the British pricks are relentlessly digging up land and are willing to kill whoever tries to stop them.  By this time, John Smith’s bragging about ‘taming the land’ too, talking about the place like it’s his possession because he’s shown up and he quite likes it.  

Now, I’d like to point out that he was about to shoot Pocahontas until the fog cleared and he saw how pretty she was.  One could say that perhaps her appearance stopped him in his tracks simply because he wasn’t expecting to find a ‘savage’ so attractive, that her gentle face almost shocked him into lowering the gun, that it made him rethink his careless killing.  But, whatever, that’s when a bunch of parents and worry-worts (sure, myself included, somewhat) start to moan and complain and express their outrage about Disney teaching young children the importance of their outer appearance to a worrying degree.  It’s as though they can’t help it, though, villains must be ugly, heroes pretty, and beautiful women will always live happily ever after.  I’m not defending it, I’m just putting it in the ‘suspend disbelief’ category- you have to just get over it and move on if you want to enjoy what are otherwise good films.

He makes the decision to talk to her, anyway, and through the magic of ‘listening with her heart’, Pocahontas can speak perfect English back at him (there’s that disbelief suspending you want to start doing).  She tells him that he’s the savage for his views on the world and the way he treats people and nature, she even sings him a nice big song and they roll about or something.  It’s that song, y’know, the one characters in films fall in love to during a montage of a happy day.  She also tells him that there’s no gold, silly British pricks, just corn.  He tells everyone but they insist that Pocahontas is a big fat liar who wants all the gold for herself.  They also get kind of pissed off with John Smith because he had a chat and a frolic with one of them instead of shooting her in the head and that’s not what’s supposed to happen.  

Team Pocahontas have started attacking Team John Smith, by now, so everything’s really quite tense, making the romance somewhat forbidden.  This is probably the only reason that commitmentphobe and adventure seeking Pocahontas is interested; give it a few years and she’d get bored and go after Kocoum instead.  It’s too late, though, and their romance has blossomed, Pocahontas has even introduced John Smith to Grandmother Willow, a wise old talking tree Pocahontas goes to for guidance.  Pretty fucking weird for John Smith, but okay, he seems to cope with it okay.  

The two are desperately trying to hide from everyone, because you know no matter who finds out about them, they’re gonna be annoyed.  Desperate to get married and live happily ever after (I don’t know) the two try to reason with their own ..tribes, shall we call them, pleading with them to talk, sort things out that way.  Sad thing is, not everyone can ‘listen with their heart’ and learn another language in minutes so that’s not too likely.  They’ve really no choice but to kill each other. 

Grandmother Willow encourages Pocahontas and John Smith to just try a little bit harder and, considering how old and wise and stuff she is, they listen, and they’re set to go until they’re caught together by Kocoum, who attacks John Smith out of jealousy and disgust, from what I can gather.  Of course, one of the British blokes sees this and shoots Kocoum.  Didn’t I mention, before, about how Kocoum had proven himself?  Yeah well everyone quite liked him and once he’s dead they all go ape shit because he was turning out to be pretty awesome, by their standards.  Everyone (not British) seems pretty disgusted that a man’s killed another man, actually, but I assumed there must have been deaths before this point, if they’ve any fighting skills at all.  Maybe I’m wrong.  

John Smith honourably takes the blame for the killing to protect the fairly useless guy who actually did it and is scheduled for a grand execution in the morning.  They do say their goodbyes and make peace with the fact that they had a happy little while and nothing can be done, but Grandmother Willow bloody insists that Pocahontas do something just in the nick of time, as the British and the Native Indians are marching into battle.  The crescendo of music culminates as Pocahontas makes a stand and insists to her father that if John Smith dies then so must she.  The speech she gives moves everyone present so much that they all put down their weapons and make cooey faces at one another, it’s quite sweet, though John Smith gets shot by Ratcliffe’s attempts to start up the battle all over again.

With his injuries, John Smith has to sail home, and with her obligations, love of nature and lack of shoes, Pocahontas has to stay where she is.  There’s a big emotional parting.  Look, I just think Pocahontas loves the drama.  Sure, she’s spirited, strong willed, whatever you want to call it, but for really underwhelming reasons.  There’s aimless determination to do something, whatever that is, which is something most people can relate too.  

There’s a lot be talked out in the way of cultures and war and nature and spirituality in this filmbut I always find it pretty interesting, the timeless relationship dynamics that Disney use and the character traits that wouldn’t be out of place in a totally different film, despite the fairytale fantasy feel of a Disney film.  

In their desperate attempts to push certain morals into their films, they seem to accidentally end up with these perfectly relatable stories and characters.  

Did I just talk this long about Pocahontas?  Yes, I did.  I really did.  Shit.

I put it to you that you are a liability to the general public.  Well, more specifically, the odd people who decide to take part in your (freak) show.  I don’t watch your show, usually, I stumbled upon it this morning and some awful part of me decided not to change the channel.  

I saw you mocking and yelling at a heroin addict and, upon hearing that he shot up only last week after a long while of staying off of it, telling him he was a waste of space.  You even encouraged the audience to laugh at the nervous man on stage.  The nervous man had a history, from what I understand of violence toward women, a dreadful thing, I know.  However, the woman he’d been violent toward in the past was also on the stage, she said she didn’t want him back, he apologised for the way he had treated her and it all got a bit fickle and fizzled out.  Jeremy, though, you know your business, son, because you managed to egg that on and pull out another twenty minutes of seemingly pointless arguing.  Other circumstances of violence were brought up and discussed in detail, you yelled at everyone involved, used terms like ‘dumb’ describe the guests on your show and encouraged, time and time again, the giggling and stifled chuckles of your hideous studio audience.

I noticed, though, that you assured the nervous man, at the end, that you would offer him counselling help.  As you summed up with a sentence along the lines of telling him that you hoped no one would ever go near him again, I saw a disturbing look come across the nervous man’s face, after which his eyes fell shut and his face twitched.  You told him to sort his life out and he walked off-stage, as the audience booed as though this man was a villain in a pantomime and they were having fun.

It disturbs me, the affect you could have had on this man, the horrible influence that you seem to be on a mass of people in this country and the pride you take in your ‘work’.  I suggest you educate yourself.  I suggest that you shouldn’t be allowed to mentor another human being until you do so.  

It’s not that my parents are particularly well off, my dad works hard in a factory and my mum’s a ..actually I don’t know what my mum is, but she does something or other at the local college, nothing fancy, part time work on a computer.  We’ve always had a lot though, partially thanks to my parents ‘may as well spend it while we can enjoy it’ attitude- they’re not ones for saving, except for the short term let’s-go-on-holiday-in-a-few-months kind.  

In the past few months I’ve been going through these feelings of guilt and panic, I’m pretty sure it was brought on because my room was finally finished, this beautiful big bedroom that I’d wanted for years on end was finally here and it was lovely, perfect, just what I’d wanted it to be.  After living all about the house, though, on the floor, on the sofa, in my brother’s old room, wherever my parents could fit me, I found myself laying in that big bed and wondering what I’d been missing.  I’d been happy and healthy, occasionally cold and uncomfortable, elsewhere, it had irritated me quite a bit but I was getting used to it and realising that it was just a place I slept.  I was slowly growing out of that adolescent idea that your bedroom defines you; the posters on your walls, the pretty lamp in the corner.  It’s just a room.  You spend time in it, keep your things in it, sleep in it.  It’s appearance will escape you in no time at all.  

This was great, this was me maturing, that’s fantastic, but then I moved back upstairs with all of my silly belongings.  A lot of things that I hadn’t used in the months I’d not been in my own bedroom, that I hadn’t even thought of, let alone wanted to use.  I kept wondering, ‘why do I own this stuff?’  I didn’t want it, I certainly didn’t need it.  I kept it all in it’s inaccessible boxes and tucked them under my bed where I couldn’t see them to avoid thinking about them.  Moving my clothes and make-up and other such things gave me a chance to view them similarly- what do I need, what do I use, why do I own this?  I wound up with quite a few bags of my things going to charity shops, and quite a lot of cosmetic bottles put in the recycling.  Sure, I had a shirt that I might wear one day if maybe I get out to some nice place and I feel like wearing purple, but fuck it, I’ve got a million shirts and if I feel like wearing purple well tough shit.  

Slowly I started to loathe the things that I couldn’t get rid of.  Living with my mum means that she sees a lot of my belongings and, though something can lack any value at all to me, my mum holds a lot of sentimental value to a lot of my stuff.  Now, I happen to find this infuriating and unfair, but it shuts her up to have a drawer full of things that are useless to me, so it’ll just have to be left.  

The thing is, it’s easy for me, someone who’s never had to want for anything, really, to grow into someone who insists that material belongings are pointless, frivolous things that I could do without, particularly while they’re still being thrown at me.  I can only assume that this is just an extension of the uneducated existential crisis I had at sixteen (which led to me being totally consumed by things like disreality for a while, then just plain really fucking amazed by just about everything; certainly one way to pull out of depression).

Still, sometimes I lay awake at night, panicked, shaking, sweating, knowing that at least ninety-five percent of my life so far has been self indulgent and pointless, a fair amount of it doing harm to other people, other things or myself.  I keep my eyes wide open, thinking about that, and the bottom of my stomach drops and twists when I see the big expensive jewellery box on my dresser, or the vase of flowers on the side.  I slept better on the floorboards.