Privilege and Some Other Buzzwords: On Writing as an Upper Middle Class White Woman

Create a blog post subtitle that summarizes your post in a few short, punchy sentences and entices your audience to continue reading.

I make a lot of dick jokes for a lot of reasons, but mostly because dicks are a fantastic metaphor. In this case, a penis is a metaphor for something that gets put places it doesn’t belong.

When writing, I plan on sticking my opinion dick lots of places it shouldn’t be. Let’s imagine the internet as a syphilitic prostitute, and my opinion dick just happens to belong to me, a drunk, belligerent, asshole who forgot the condoms in daddy’s Porsche. Everything is telling me I shouldn’t put my opinion dick inside of that walking venereal disease, but is that going to stop me? Hell no.

I want to talk about race, class, gender, and a lot of other things that don’t directly affect me. I’m gonna abuse the shit out of my privilege, and run my mouth on all manner of phenomena I’ll probably never experience. I will almost certainly be heard over the people who really need to be listened to, and I will admit right now that there is nothing unique about my war cry in the blood-soaked fray. If anything it’s a smoker’s cough in a megaphone over the smoldering ruins of a nuclear dead zone, which might sound unique but really isn’t (especially if you live in Russia). I won’t be saying anything that hasn’t been said by a thousand other much better writers who know what the fuck they’re talking about.

I’m only missing one thing in the trifecta of privilege known as the Rich, White, Male. Other than that last bit, society was made with me in mind, and conceivably the only thing keeping me from vast political influence (besides general laziness and a fondness for the word cunt) is that I have a V where there should be a P. Discrimination against women is very real, but in the grand scheme of womanhood, society says I’m doing pretty good. I have blondish hair, upper middle-class roots, and the better part of a thigh gap. I’m chilling.

I hope it will always be entertaining, but I’m pretty sure eventually I’ll just be the sobbing baby you only listen to because the only other option is smothering it. You’ll be begging whatever higher power you believe in that someone shoves a whiskey-dipped pacifier in the baby’s mouth so that little fucker will go to sleep. Because like a baby, my cry is grating, ordinary, and loudest when I’ve taken a shit. Brace yourselves. Shrill nonsense and awful mixed metaphors are coming.