Conspiracy theory and chill

Entering the dating world after being with one person for four years has been troubling, to say the least. I thought it would be difficult to find a guy with a sense of humour, but turns out it’s far more difficult to find someone with a clear grasp on reality.

Last week I went on a tinder date [i.e. where romance goes to die] with a cute, intelligent reporter. What a smile. I’m a sucker for dimples. And so interesting, really a man of the world. The date started off great.

I should mention that the fact that he pitched at all was a great start because he’d already ghosted me once, and yes I know I shouldn’t have given him a second chance but to be frank a fair amount of sexting had occurred before the date and I was curious.

We drank to relax the first date nerves and awkwardness, as one does. I continued to drink to deal with the deep disappointment at the extensive list of conspiracy theories he believes in – “only ones with evidence” – unfortunately a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of conspiracy theories. And by the way, the fact that there is no evidence, is not evidence.

“Whyyy?” I thought to myself in despair. “Surely clever good looking boys know better than this?”

But that is not the way the world works. According to conspiracy boy (as I refer to him), America did not land on the moon. Ebola was inserted into West Africa by pharmaceutical companies to test the vaccine. The Libyan revolution was created by the West to prevent Gaddaffi from creating an entire new currency in Africa (that one’s at least vaguely interesting). TUPAC IS STILL ALIVE. 9/11 blah blah blah. I actually take it for granted these days that I am surrounded by 9/11 Truthers. Sometimes I feel like I’m crazy because I’m not one. Don’t even say it. Don’t.

I’ll give him some credit for not mentioning the Jews controlling the international media and banking system. Maybe because he knew I was Jewish, I don’t know. I do know though that the Conspiracy Theorist Starter Pack always includes a “when in doubt, blame the Jews” token.

Anyways, after he finished telling me that everything I believe is a lie, I took him back to my place, where I revealed my true alien reptilian form and ate him. Joke’s on him, because he didn’t even believe in lizard people.

JK. But I was feeling like if we didn’t get to the “chill” part of our evening soon, I was gonna start getting cranky.

On a serious note though, as a young person in a world with so much uncertainty and so many kak things going on, I do often feel a sense of powerlessness and insecurity and I understand the urge to look for simple answers and explanations for horrible things.

The world can be a really scary, confusing place. I felt bad for conspiracy boy. I wanted to hold him and stroke his hair and say, “it’s ok baby, I know Tupac wasn’t at his peak yet. It’s terrible. I’m sad too. I’m sorry he was cremated and The Outlawz smoked his ashes in a joint [???] and he keeps releasing music. But he’s dead.”

I also totally get the deep mistrust in powerful governments and corporations. The control they hold over us is scary AF. Obvio it makes people feel super vulnerable.

And let’s not forget, everyone loves a great villain.

But this kinda made me think of something I learnt in an undergrad politics class about the problem with conspiracy theories (a true miracle because most of the time I feel like I’ve forgotten everything I learnt in university). It’s called the fallacy of the single cause and it goes like this:

 X occurred after Y. Therefore Y caused X.

Easy. We reduce the problem to one great evil source. It’s a government plot, or something.

But then we start being suffocated by confirmation bias and scrape around desperately finding any shred of evidence or non-evidence to support the theory, and we are sucked into the black hole of the internet and start believing everything we see and slowly the cats that rule the internet and the world start feeding us our own brains and we don’t even realise it.

Fortunately, fellow humans and lizard people and cat overlords, we are in 2016, and we hold the capabilities and resources to rigourously and scientifically analyse these situations and understand them, because the world is a complex place and mostly X was caused by a combination of A, B, C, and a bunch of other reasons. Not just Y.

It just is not all a deliberate plot.

In any case, since when has the white supremacist capitalist patriarchy ever needed a sinister or secret plot to subject, kill or ignore the suffering of people that have no value to it? The whole system is fucked, that’s the problem. #jussaying

Anyway, I digress.

I must come clean. Or dirty. Or at all, really (too far? Too far.) After listening to this drivel for long enough, my mind just wandered to previous illicit conversations between conspiracy boy and me. Eventually I really became far less interested in whether man landed on the moon (lol jk I never cared), and far more interested in whether this man was going to land in my bed, and in what position (see what I did there?). Expectations had been created, what’s a girl to do?

So eventually I did take him home. Not because I needed the human sustenance to maintain my human form as a lizard person, but because goddammit it’s been a while and quite frankly there wasn’t much that was going to stop me from getting my rocks off that night.

Turns out I definitely would have gotten more satisfaction from the experience if I was a lizard person.

Instead, I came to the sad realisation that there were probably many hours that he spent feeding his wild theories, that could have been better spent learning where the clitoris is and how to please a woman sexually. 

I’ve been debating in my head how much detail to go into here, I’m not used to talking about my sex life on the internet, but I think it’s enough to say he had his fun, paid zero attention to me or my clitoris, and rolled over to go to sleep. Very typical selfish lover, very average sexual experience, and an unfortunately very common story.

I wasn’t going to just let this slide though. I tapped him on the shoulder. Pointing to my phone, I said, “Hi there! Can I refer you to this string of texts in which you explained in detail your sexual prowess and expertise in pleasuring women? What about this one where you said that you were going to bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep?” Sigh. False advertising. And unfortunately there is no advertising standards authority for sexting. “Sorry, I’m just so tired,” he said.

Ignoring for a moment certain obvious lessons here, like don’t sext with people you’ve never met because they will lie to you (I knew there were too many cry-laughing emojis), I think we can see what the ultimate moral of the story is: there’s clearly a massive conspiracy keeping men from learning anything about sex and women’s bodies that isn’t just about their own dicks, and that’s why the world is so full of average sex and so void of female orgasms.

Waaiiit, no. That’s just the patriarchy again. Either way, I think I’m updating my tinder profile:

"Looking for a cute, intelligent, funny guy. Must believe that man landed on the moon and that Tupac is no longer alive. Working knowledge of the female anatomy essential."

On turning 27 and who the hell knows

…And what is it to be young in years and suddenly wakened to the anguish, the urgency of life?

It is to be reached one day by the reverberations of those who do not follow, to stumble out of the jungle and fall into an abyss:

It is then to be blind to the faults of the rebellious, to yearn painfully, wholly, after all opposites of childhood’s existence. It is impetuousness, wild enthusiasm, immediately submerged in a flood of self-deprecation. It is the cruel awareness of one’s own presumption…

...It is the emergence of cynicism, a probing of every thought and word and action. (“Ah, to be perfectly, utterly sincere!”) It is a bitter and relentless questioning of motives…

- Susan Sontag, Reborn: Early Diaries 1947-1963


Tomorrow I am turning 27. Actually in 5 minutes. Actually by now 5 minutes ago. I’ve always seen 27 as one of those landmark ages, like 18 or 21 or 50.

In my misunderstood adolescence I started preparing to join the 27 club with my musical faves; Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain - destined for greatness and tragedy. I simultaneously saw 27 as the ideal age to get married and settle down and have babies. I didn’t seem to think those two plans were contradictory. Furthermore, my mother used to tell me that she didn’t really know what she wanted to do with her life until she was [already] 27 – so I had a lot of time to work things out.

But 27 has quickly caught up with me and, as it turns out, I am not a drug-addled international rockstar like my ill-fated idols; I just came out of a serious relationship so wtf even is marriage srsly; and I have no clue what I’m doing with my life. At least I’m consistent in my inability to stick to deadlines.

[That gif isn't really that relevant but I really wanted to put it somewhere and this spot seemed most apt.]

I tend to live in a constant state of nostalgia about being 18, partying five nights a week, bunking classes, meeting people – mostly meeting boys, having new experiences, learning new things and new ways of seeing things. (“So much potential!”)

The constant nostalgia is largely due to a constant state of anxiety at feeling quite directionless, a feeling that has persisted since it arrived when I entered my mid-twenties and had to start checking new boxes on forms. 25-34: a new age bracket. A grown up age bracket. LOL jk.

Everywhere I look my peers are getting married, having babies and, WORST OF ALL, buying property. The only things I regularly invest in are new shades of cheap lipstick from Dischem. Every time I go through all the wedding or baby photos on Facebook of people I went to school or university with (or who I’ve never heard of but one of my Facebook friends has been tagged in their album), I think “laaame, you’re so young, you’re missing out on your youth, this is like going home from a party at 9pm lol”. And then I’m like hang on this is a normal age to do these things. Fuck.

I can only comfort myself with thoughts of some of my own recent achievements, like learning how to style and fill in my eyebrows without watching a single Youtube tutorial. #balling #eyebrowsonfleek

The truth is, I have plenty of friends who are in a similar position to me: who studied something they were interested in and passionate about, were full of ideals and ideas, and have landed up in their late 20s feeling like how did I get here and where am I going and how do I earn more money and fuck humanities degrees and someone pour me a glass of wine.

Getting older is getting scary without any firm sense of purpose or direction, and it’s been a bit of a tough year. I kindof want to say stop the bus! I’m not rich or famous yet! But given that that is unlikely to happen, here is a short list of somewhat shallow self-reflection on 27 and getting older:

1. The wine gets better but the hangovers only get worse.

2. Good friends are just sooo NB. Having friends to drink with and to eat with, friends to cry to as much as I want and need over a broken heart, friends to be gross around, friends with good advice, even friends with bad advice (depending how fun the advice is) is everything. Chicks before dicks or whatever the bros before hoes equivalent is.

3. Relationships and break-ups don’t get easier with age, they actually seem to get messier and more complicated. Serious relationships feel that much more serious and therefore their endings feel more serious.

That's not to mention trying to enter the post-break-up dating world which is simply a minefield of fuccbois that makes me want to run away and hide in the foetal position under a chair.

Boys are stupid and that’s the most mature thing I have to say on this issue.

4. Some things never change. There will always be scandalous stories about what I did when I was drunk or what she did when she was drunk or can’t evens about who is sleeping with who and you know what I heard.

5. Ideals and principles don’t put food on the table. My priorities have had to change and this has unfortunately correlated with an increasing sense of disillusionment.

Also almost no one I know is anywhere they thought they would be now, and also that’s ok (unless it’s the worst, in which case it’s not that ok).

6. Everyone is winging it. Some are just better at it than others. That’s what I need to improve on.

There are obviously other things that have touched me, from the very political to the very personal, but it’s late and I want to sleep, and I’m also winging this post anyway.

On the words I speak, and why

I was pretty proud that I finally wrote my first blog post, very proud that more than one person obligingly read it. The best response I had from a friend was, “It really wasn’t as wanky as I expected it to be” (which I am hoping I can also say one day in my old age when I look back at my life).

It’s taken me a while to write more though. I was given some food thought by my mother’s reaction to my first post, which was not particularly positive. Her main 3 criticisms were as follows:

1. I swore gratuitously
2. I just put myself down
3. I did not provide a proper political analysis

At first I was upset. Then I remembered that she is a Jewish mother and is thus obliged by the laws of Jewish motherhood to criticize or complain about something. Even as a child, it was never enough at school to get 80% or even 90%: “What happened to the other 10%?” Fair question I suppose, if you’re expected to be mommy’s little Jewish genius and provide more nachas than the other little geniuses. The struggle against Jewish guilt is real.

So I calmed down and decided to take it as inspiration to develop some direction for this blog, which, like my life in general, it currently does not have. A sort of path into some things that may be important, or at least funny or interesting. Because there are important things to say.

Thus, my response (note: not a specific response to said mother):

1. On foul language

I learnt how to swear the moment I could imitate the words “fucking asshole”, which came out of my mother’s mouth about every 5 minutes. The only warning she ever gave me about swearing when I was a kid was to be careful about swearing at people – that can get a person into trouble. And while I was super badass with my blonde pigtails, multi-coloured glasses and big teeth, I wasn’t always in the mood for having to beat people up if they got cross at me.

So #sorrynotsorry for any vulgar language used in the past, present or future. Swearing is great.

2. On being a dick about myself

More important than the swearing issue, though related, is the issue of being self-deprecating (which is not the same as simply putting myself down), a quality deeply ingrained in my genes. To make up for my bad eyes and bad skin, my parents handed down an appreciation for rude humour of all types, as well as a special brand of dark self-deprecating humour that I believe has helped all of us in my family get through some very dark times.

Thing is, there are numerous things I feel shit about that I want/need to laugh about sometimes, e.g. my love life, my general lack of direction and passion, the varying levels of mental illness in my family (including myself), money, climate change, the patriarchy, social injustice, the deep dark limitless void of my existence, death, most people.

HOWEVER, I also know these things: I am resourceful and strong, at least moderately intelligent, have a sense of integrity that usually remains fairly in tact, fucking amazing friends (and even a few great family members – yes mom you are one of them); as well as pretty glasses, a great haircut, and a bum that could arguably be described as a ‘feature’, depending on what pants I’m wearing. I am generally happy with my body and my person. Sometimes I even dress nice.

I don’t think being self-deprecating is a bad thing. Many of my favourite entertainment figures use self-deprecating humour (combined with confidence), such as Tina Fey (Liz Lemon and 30 Rock are everything), Mindy Kaling and Amy Schumer, and manage to simultaneously send important messages about race, gender and other really NB pressing issues. Which is not to ignore the fact that they have all also had controversial moments. But who hasn’t? Sometimes I even put ice in my red wine.

As Amy Schumer crudely jokes about sex, HPV and big thighs, she challenges beauty standards, condemns body-shaming, questions the kind of role models that young girls have, and comments on the double standards applied to men and women in the entertainment industry. She has used her brand of humour to advocate for things like gun control and access to birth control as in this amazing video.

Mindy Kaling does the same thing. Also S/O to Mindy for being a creator and lead character in a comedy series who is not a man, not white, not skinny, and not that concerned about race or religion while simultaneously commenting on all these things.

On the other hand, after giving this much thought, sometimes there is a limit, and sometimes there are questions to be asked about how we speak about ourselves.

Speaking personally, I think I “put myself down” for various reasons. Some of these are very personal and I would say stretch back into my childhood and this is neither the time nor place to discuss them – they are reserved for the therapist I can’t afford, which means they are actually reserved for my close friends and several bottles of cheap wine.

However, I also think there is some validity in saying that women generally are often trained, even if sometimes subconsciously, to put ourselves down. Sometimes we laugh the things off that we are taught to feel bad about; sometimes it’s a way of not taking things too seriously. Sometimes it’s harmless and sometimes it’s not that harmless.

I am self-deprecating sometimes to avoid social awkwardness, or other awkwardness (my awkward knows no bounds, and I will own that!). But perhaps I should also be aware that I don’t exist in a society or a reality where it is easy or encouraged for women to speak loudly and proudly about their great qualities and achievements. So perhaps I play these things down.

There have been a bunch of articles and studies on the gender wage gap (in the USA though undoubtedly applicable in South Africa) that have shown that women do not get paid as much as men because they do not ask for or negotiate a higher salary. And that is because there is often a higher cost for women to speak up, or what in this example has been called the “social cost” of negotiation – i.e. not because women are just being coy or shy or whatever.

Last month Jennifer Lawrence, the world’s highest paid actress (so my sympathies are limited) spoke out about being paid $28 million less than the highest paid actor, Robert Downey, Jr. and it has exposed the same prevalent dynamics right through to the highest levels of the entertainment industry.

But it’s all relative. The dynamics of race, class and sexuality display the silencing of women of their achievements and desires for recognition to varying degrees. Jennifer Lawrence is a world away from me, and several light years away from other people in situations of much deeper oppression, where speaking up comes with great risks and costs.

However, I know as much as most women I know do, that we often brush off some really not cool things because it is not worth it to argue or speak up, or the outcomes are likely to not be positive, or we just do it without even thinking about it.

Sometimes, though, I hope a bit of self-deprecating humour can be empowering. Yes, there’s a time and a place. I feel like it’s probably not a great idea in a job interview to be like lol I have no idea where I see myself in five years because I literally have no idea what I’m doing with my life lmao; also probably not the best idea in a staff meeting with the boss to joke about how little I do and how much time I waste looking at pug gifs lol jk but seriously.

But it’s ok to laugh at myself generally speaking and that’s what I know and sometimes it makes me feel better about things so that’s what imma do, and I can only try to make good of it.

You know, also just sometimes….

That's why.

3. On the intellectual content of this blog

Mom (this one is for you), this is a personal blog and the personal is political and vice versa and so on, but if you are looking for really deep insightful cutting edge political analysis, you are knocking on the wrong blog. Please feel free to check out the rest of the internet (and good luck).

But I do want to talk about things that are important to me personally, and maybe the one or two other people I force to read this might identify with one or two things.

To blog or not to blog? Is that the question?

I have wanted to start a blog for years. But somehow other things, like compulsive Facebooking, as well as watching videos of pugs talking, pugs sleeping, pugs playing with babies, pugs dressed as Harry Potter, pugs playing drums, pugs shitting, pugs bathing, x-files pugs (yes, x-files pugs), have always taken precedence.

Ironically, the compulsive Facebooking was the hand that pushed me to expand my horizons into the blogosphere. Blogging just seems like the natural next step after statusing (Is that a word? Must be a word). I feel like I’ve gotten just enough “likes” in my Facebook career to feel confident enough to join the hoards of self-centered dicks on the internet who think they have something to say worth listening to, contriving bullshit for bored people at work to roll their eyes at.

In any case, here I am. And there are, in fact, both good reasons and bad reasons to start a blog right now. 

Perhaps the best reason is that I have just been through a particular great sadness in my life: the end of a four year-long relationship with my boyfriend (I want to be Carrie Bradshaw about this and call him “Mr. Big” or something but I’m too awkward and only like 2 people will read this anyway and they know his name), which, although maybe a necessary ending and a loving one, nevertheless broke my heart. Which is pretty much the worst.

In other words, this is the ideal time for a new haircut and a new project. (And a new wardrobe but my budget limited me to 2 plain white t-shirts from Mr. Price. Although one must never underestimate the value of a plain white t-shirt.) I am down 30cm of hair - not in a Britney Spears descent into crisis and custody battle kind of way, I don’t think. In a nice way, I think. So now a project. This blog - since my previous project of post-break-up self-destructive behavior didn’t work out so well for me, for obvious reasons.

It's also kind of an odd time to start a blog, however, partly because my younger sister Anna, who is infinitely cooler than me (not to take away from my other sister Molly, who is also infinitely cooler than me), has literally just started a fantastic blog about her travels through Vietnam - and I am starting a likely mediocre blog about my non-travels in suburban Joburg and failing love life. Like, why, Kate, honestly.

But mainly what has held me back from knuckling down and writing anything recently is, ermahgerd, the revolution waging outside. As far as many (I want to say most - I hope most) South Africans are concerned, there is really only one thing that has been happening lately in the country: the nationwide #feesmustfall protests and demonstrations which have shut down universities across South Africa, and produced the kind of student mass action that hasn’t been seen in decades. The students of this country have shown the power of united action to effect great change, and have bravely faced the stun grenades, arrests, rubber bullets and tear gas that have come with challenging and shaking the very core of university management and government, as well as invoking the ire of a police service for whom the use of unnecessary brutal force seems to be a prerequisite for employment.

Thousands of students protest at the Union Buildings in Pretoria on 23 October. Photo by Juliette Garms

The result has been truly historic. Things have quietened down slightly this week (since I originally wrote this a week ago but spent all that time fretting over what to name it because clearly I have my priorities straight). 

However, although some battles have been won-which should have been won long ago but are nevertheless remarkable-there remains a greater war, deeply intertwined with historical inequality and institutional racism, and one that goes much further than university students. This requires a much greater discussion that I don't have the intellectual capacity, confidence or energy to go into right here and now (I just spent 4 hours looking at free blogger templates and teaching myself HTML editing and I think I succeeded in finding the most simple boring one and still fucking it up. Again, priorities). Seriously though, this is a conversation which is essential for everyone in South Africa to participate in.

Certainly I never saw or was part of anything like this in my slightly more apathetic days at UCT. Despite my teenage dreams after graduating from my all-white Jewish high school in Joburg of growing dreadlocks, walking around barefoot (so gross), having a bajillion friends from every different race and background, and fighting the good fight for social justice - because *obviously* none of those things can exist without the others - it turns out I just wanted to get drunk and get laid. Go figure.

While getting drunk and getting laid remain features on my list of priorities, I have also learnt about my own whiteness and privilege and to be conscious of it, I have learnt to have some of the humility no one has at 18 which means I need to *keep* learning and listening, and I have learnt the deeply problematic issues around believing that dreadlocks would make me seem like a better person. These days I will wear an activist t-shirt as daytime clothing even, not just pajamas. So yes, I’m getting a bit better.

But I digress. What I've been contemplating in the last few weeks while deciding to finally start a damn blog was: Who the fuck wants to take a break from the revolution to read an extract from another diary of a white girl on nothing-worth-talking-about? Who am I to even write this right now when the winds of great social change are rattling my suburban front door? MacBook Pro for what?

The question may not be as relevant as it was a week ago, but the answer is in any case, probably, actually, that I can expect about as many people to read this blog whether there is a revolution waging outside or not. Almost no one. Yes, at least one family member or friend will feel obliged or I will guilt into reading it (thanks for teaching me the ways of Jewish guilt, mom. Love your work), but that’s about it. At least I can’t expect more than that. Yet. I’m still at chopped liver blogging stage. 

So, I guess, why the fuck not just write, right?