The motherload

I recently sent my best friend a document titled ‘The Motherload’: a manual explaining how to be me in the event that I die, am incapacitated or sent to jail for killing my husband. It includes gems such as the food preferences of each of my children, the sunscreen that doesn’t cause rashes and how often they need to see the dentist. The ostensibly trivial items on it are the ones that matter most – catering to kids’ idiosyncrasies makes for a happy family life.

Cherry chapstick

Before we railed on Katy Perry for her love of astrology, we piled on her lipstick lesbianism. Pseudo-sapphics copped a lot of shit – maybe we should shovel some of it onto the pseudo-socialists. Evidently, there were plenty of liberal cosplayers who are now back in their weekday clothes and killing it at the (government) office.

Social media’s swan song?

Post-apocalyptic parenting 

How does one balance raising children with a sense of wonder and innocence in a world that’s just waiting for them to get hot/legal/sign up to the heterodoxy? As their mother I reserve the right to irrevocably damage them. It’s my job to give them some good therapy fodder in case future them have any money to spare after buying future air and water.

John Williams makes me get something in my eye

Captain Planet sucks  

I hear the sceptics pointing out that we have now had six (yes, six) Terminator films warning us of the risks of evil, fighty robots – and yet here we are, merrily cracking on with more and more advanced AI.