It’s time women claimed their hair. We have HAIR. On our BODIES. Some parts of us are HAIRY. It’s NATURAL. DEAL WITH IT. Now on a date that is going well and he’s REALLY cute and you’re quite drunk and suddenly you’re going back to your house and it’s all looking promising and you’re opening your front door and you’ve suddenly remembered that you are concealing Teen Wolf beneath your clothes.
A girls’ weekend in Dubrovnik
It was all going fine until you realised this was a glorified hen without the incentive to behave well for the sake of the bride-to-be. Now everyone is disagreeing about where to have lunch. Someone has made the massive mistake of criticising the #MeToo campaign. Someone else is crying. And you’re here, paying for the privilege of all of it.
Any kind of redecoration
Wait. What? Your budget has already gone? Your builder has walked off site? That wall you got rid of was a supporting wall? Your neighbours are practically hissing at you in the street? The new colour in the kitchen makes you think of death? The new tiles in the bathroom look like they belong in Hitler’s bunker?
Having a proper dinner party
So this is you chained to the kitchen for the entire evening, quietly dying because you burnt all the scallops for the starter, while your lamb is wildly undercooked and your panna cotta hasn’t set. The bastards will probably be expecting different plates for each course, like costume changes. And now two of your so-called friends are arguing and someone has started smoking without asking you first because this is apparently 1998. Just call yourself an Uber and leave without telling anyone.
Using YouTube to fix your washing machine
Think of the money you’ll save. And the time. Except should it be making a noise like that? And where did this extra screw come from? What’s with the flashing ERR399 code? And should it be gushing water like that? Where’s the stopcock? What’s a stopcock?
Tweeting about Brexit
So you made some innocuous comment about the Customs Union and now you have unleashed flying, fanged harpies of death who are digging into the deepest hell-pit they can find for language to describe what they think of you and your opinion… You don’t even know what the Customs Union actually is.