Monday Mood: Kanye West – “Father, I Stretch My Hands” (40 Minute Off White Breakdown)

“… kanye just sent a 1 hour version of ‘Father Stretch My Hands’ too for the end

When you’re Kanye’s best friend and Creative Director of his brain-child, DONDA you might do your own clothing line called #OffWhite. Then you take it to Paris for an hour long fashion show. But, what of the tunes? Should you make a playlist of the hottest joints around, or ask the homie to make you an hour long version of one of his sort after anthems from his latest album? Well you Stretch Your Hands, and ask the homie to make you an hour long version of one of his highly sort after anthems from his latest album, of course!

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Hi, I’m A Nerdy Feminist And I Really Enjoyed The Ronda Rousey Fight!

feministmma

Confession: I went to Buffalo Wild Wings and watched people pummel each other for five hours and I have no regrets.

Okay, so a little about me for context.

I am a 25-year old female feminist who advocates for survivors of sexual violence 40+ hours a week, indulges in cynical sarcasm, and maintains an unhealthy obsession with my cat as self-care. In my office, rape is lunch talk. Stalking and harassment are casual hallway conversations. I don’t believe we become numb to it, but we accept it as a reality and move forward from that reality.

I spend my day managing a massive schedule of advocates answering our 24-7, statewide crisis line. During my breaks, I catch up on current events, primarily those related to violence against women and marginalized populations (although I wouldn’t recommend saturating your entire day in interpersonal violence). Of recent, my spare moments are spent reading lengthy articles on Bill Cosby’s victims, rich white celebrities opposing decriminalization of sex work, undercover videos of Planned Parenthood meetings, and quotes from Donald Trump’s lawyer claiming you can’t legally rape your wife.

On Saturday, I consumed a different brand of media: mixed martial arts. This consensual form of beating the shit out of someone was… well, incredibly refreshing! Now, I am not usually one to support violence in any form not only because of my advocacy work but also because I can’t stand the idea of people, animals, or fictional creatures getting hurt (I am still traumatized by Bambi and The Fox and the Hound). At first, I didn’t exactly enjoy this male-dominated, arguably misogynistic sport but then an ass-kicking warrior woman changed everything.

Enter Ronda Rousey.

If you haven’t watched Ronda Rousey end the dreams of Bethe Correia in 34 seconds, you need to do that right now.

If you’ve already watched it, then you’ve already witnessed the utterly amazing feat of human strength that was Ronda knocking out Bethe. Now why on EARTH would someone like ME be endorsing one human trying to bash the face of another human? (Please note: My father once invited his three adult children to shoot clay targets with him. I declined, choosing instead to cover the ears of newly born farm kittens because I worried gunshots would surely induce feline hearing loss).

Why? Because this was the first time I have ever in my life seen a bar full of men covered in buffalo sauce anxiously awaiting a FEMALE sporting event. A room full of MEN watching a WOMAN excel in sports. (I am not entertaining the sexualization of the athletes or the influence Ronda’s drop-dead gorgeous body had on the popularity of this fight. That is a dissertation in itself and we don’t have time for that.) I’d like to instead thank Ronda for being bad ass enough to draw attention to her sport in a way that had a room full of people – from college bros to lesbians – yelling  and cheering her on, regardless of their gender, sexual orientation, or race. Forget the fight, forget the knockout, forget all the spectacle around it. Bringing people together is what’s truly inspiring.

Potato Of The Day Episode 52

seedlesswatermelonShout out to badass seedless watermelon women holding it down in sun soaked southern farm patches, ripening through the prime of their lives, not concerning themselves about future seedlings or sprouts, just living in the now, kicking it on their own scratchy little grip of vine, taking in fresh air, living off the earth, relaxing in dirt baths, mingling with other vegetative roots. Those watermelons are straight up heroic. They’ve chosen their own lives. They’re set. No seeds? No stress.

It might be tempting to listen to your inner hormonal self when you look at a seedless watermelon. You might feel your eyes well up with liquid empathy bombs as you think about their barren bodies, baby shaped melons lacking the capacity to reproduce. But don’t do that. Don’t make this a sad, weird, empty baby-maker thing. That’s not what this is about. Yeah, there’s nothing in the oven. But it doesn’t matter. Baking ain’t the only way to cook. Look at that watermelon’s colors! Red and green. Those are the colors of LIFE, of blood and bush. Badass seedless watermelon women are living just fine without your stupid, misplaced empathetic nonsense, thank you very much.

Honestly, they’re better than fine. They’ve got this shit figured out. They’re out there staying juicy and fresh, diverting eyes, catching looks. They’re not going about adding to the watermelon overpopulation problem. Have you been to a supermarket lately? Yes, you have. You’re an adult presumably. You’ve seen the way they pack melons in these days. It’s out of control. Seedless watermelons know that’s not what’s up. They have your back. They’re not making more messes. They’re cleaning up.

Some seedless watermelons are seedless by choice, others have been that way from birth. No matter how they got the way they are, they’ve got a special place in my heart. Thank you for bringing summer without seeds. Thank you for reminding me of the miracle of specific allele cultivation. Thank you for making me look up what the fuck a Punnett square was. I remember now. It’s a chart for plotting potential genetic mutations and shit. And I know that because of badass seedless watermelon women holding it down and educating my dumbass self.

So thank you, badass seedless watermelon women. I owe you a lot.