Just when you think you’ve seen it all, something like this comes along. Last week at the Nation Union of Student’s women’s conference, in England–it’s a feminist affair, you know, pip pip!–apparently things were getting a bit out of control, so:
Applause. Applause was triggering anxiety. Really, what’s left? Walking? Breathing? Looking vaguely in someone’s general direction? Mere existence? How do such pale flowers manage to get out of bed in the morning, or are they generally trapped there by the cruel, heteronormative, patriarchal oppression of the man-made sheets?