Sure, I may remember the names of everyone else I slept with and I might even know the general ballpark of their birthdays, but for the most part, I didn’t know them in a way that I know my closest friends. It now seems easier to open your legs for someone than cry on their shoulder in a cab.
Angry Feminists believe in equality but hate lots of women—basically anyone who is pretty, wears heels, or laughs a lot. Actually, a large part of Angry Feminist culture is the rejection of feminine things for the sake of rejecting feminine things.
We were talking about relationships in my living room, over Aperol drinks with ice cubes and cigarettes off the fire escape. The ethereal echo of something lo-fi and chillwave set the mood. The heat lifted its oppressive finger, ever so slightly, in the early evening glow.
The coffee machine is no drip filter. It is sleek and black. It has curves like a European sports car. The choices of brew are a tribute to democratic choice. Hot or cold, steamed or black, tea or coffee—the machine mixes and matches these possibilities to suit each individual’s point of view.