Firstly, welcome! Thank you so much for coming. Please help yourself to coffee and cake – I made three different kinds of cake because I’d like to make sure there’s something you enjoy. I admire and respect and very desperately want to impress you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your time today, and I’ll try not to waste a single second of it, so let’s get stuck in. I’ve prepared a brief presentation on why you should let me borrow your boyfriend.

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One of the weird things about being an adult – and I mean an adult adult, not the adult I was in my twenties who spent most of her time trying to please other people – is that I’m starting to recognise more situations in which I cause friction by just… not doing exactly what other people want. By ‘other people’ here, I mostly mean ‘men’.

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This isn’t sexy. OK, it might be sexy. If you like cunts. But then if you like cunts, the way I write about them is going to seem bizarre and maybe even horrible to you. So I may well be about to take something you find sexy and absolutely ruin it. Here goes: I am disgusted by the inside of my body, and therefore I’m disgusted by my cunt, and so what I’m about to tell you is the most intimate thing I have ever done.

This post about vaginal inspection involves extreme and sometimes gross/shamey descriptions of the human body, especially (obviously) the vagina. 

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Love is an addiction, and I am not good with addiction. I’m writing this post so I do not send a text: it’s that simple. I sit here at my desk, legs crossed on my office chair like I know I really shouldn’t because it’s bad for my back, and I press the buttons on my keyboard that will keep my hands busy so I do not send a text to my ex saying ‘hey, how are you? I was wondering if you fancied hanging out?’ Earlier this evening, I pressed other buttons – on the microwave, to heat up my dinner, so that I wouldn’t send a text. Later, when it’s reasonable enough that an adult might call it a night, I will brush my teeth so I don’t sent that text, go for a pee so I don’t send that text, roll my mattress out onto the floor and take a sleeping pill and have a wank and put on a podcast so I do not send that text. I will do all this extremely mindfully. With the focus and dedication of a powerful woman who will – under absolutely no circumstances – send that fucking text. Love is an addiction, my friends, and I have no willpower.

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How should we deal with the problem of incels? Well, we don’t fuck them, that’s for fucking sure. You don’t ‘solve’ the problem of violent misogyny by giving violent misogynists what they want. You don’t get men to stop hating women by ensuring they have intimate access to women. You do not solve the problem of incels by fucking them, because you can’t solve the problem of men’s anger by throwing them a sacrificial woman.

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