Trump makes Amélie write again

The 11th of November is visible at the not-so-starry sky, coming in to land for a long sleep to metamorphose in a 12th of November. For morning birds like me, at this hour the day already carries a lullaby with it, covered in woolly blankets.

The sound of this lullaby should be the clattering of arms touching the asphalt or the mud-caked ground as their soldiers throw them away, today being the bloody 11th of November, Remembrance Day, in which we ought to celebrate the end of the hostilities of the First World War. But there seems something wrong with the tone of this lullaby of peace. There’s a crack in it. Through this crack another tone has crept in, a tone which has been slumbering in the corners of America, the corners of our world, for a very long time, a tone which has exploded two days ago. The tone of hate. The tone of Donald Trump.

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Perfectly imperfect: Plato in a Vogue shirt

In a world filled with people with rotting, old souls hidden underneath a preserved body, imperfection is a rarity. We only want the best: we won’t come near gluten anymore,  we use apps to track how much glasses of water we drink because apparently we will die without these notifications and we contour our faces as if we’re the Caravaggio of our own skin using chiaroscuro to get the highest cheekbones as possible. This is not a lecture on makeup, makeup gives you the opportunity to have a different appearance every time you step on Goffman’s front stage and it has the power to discover yourself once you’re behind the curtains. This is an ode to imperfection, a love song to big noses, crooked teeth, Steve Buscemi-eyes and all the features society just cannot accept. Lees verder “Perfectly imperfect: Plato in a Vogue shirt”

Young girls in spaghetti straps are making my penis uncomfortable

When I was in 5th grade I was shamed for wearing shorts to school by my own teacher. My teacher was female, I thought she was on our side but I guess I was wrong. She asked me to stand in front of the class so she could show everyone what a girl shouldn’t be wearing. Every step I took to the blackboard represented the process of the sexualization of the young girl I still was. When I reached the blackboard, the words of the teacher tore down the safe comfortable home I called childhood. I returned back to my seat, still shaking and realizing I wasn’t a young girl anymore.

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Photograph: Michael Tierney/BSIE

You have to be careful in the land of the free

Thursday afternoon, dating the sixteenth of a June in bloom, blood trickled over the streets of Birstall in northern England. A woman was lying on the asphalt, her skin torn by bullets and the sharp-edged blade of a knife. Although her hair had a chocolate-coloured touch rather than one as black as ebony, this Snow White also had a taste of the ruby-red apple dipped in poison. Jo Cox, on the up and up of Britain’s political ladder, ate of humanity.

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