Love is Blind, bell hooks, Dairy Milk Erasure 😭
Baby miniature horse chasing ME? It’s more likely than you think.
Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,
It’s been a historic week, and by that I mean I watched a donkey foal playing with its mother in the park and remembered that life is worth it. I wish I had a donkey. But I don't! I have a newsletter instead. We can’t get everything we want in life. Sometimes it has to be enough to see the donkeys play from a distance and write the SWEETIE Weekly.
So here it is.
❣️ SWEETIE RATES ❣️
Love is Blind
I find it hard to give any praise to most Netflix originals, because they are patently bad, but gee whiz they really blacked out in the booth when they made Love is Blind. Now three seasons deep, each redux just keeps getting increasingly balls to the wall insane. Hosted by Vanessa and Nick Lachey (obviously) the most recent episodes dropped at the exact right time, reviving my downtrodden spirits as though I’d received a blood transfusion.
Whoever casts Love is Blind does so with a sniper-like precision, able to pinpoint veritable psychopaths and vaguely hot weirdos with ease. Iconic moments fall out of the show effortlessly. Contestant Andrew, a consultant-turned-wildlife-photographer who clearly worships at the altar of Patrick Bateman (film version) makes a manoeuvre that is so shockingly bonkers that I had to rewind and watch it again and again. There’s Raven, an intimidating Pilates instructor who has a concerning grasp on what is and isn’t appropriate in relationships, and hilariously appears to do Zumba in the midst of being confided in by Bartise. There is Cole, who I hate with every fibre of my being. His future wife seems to share the same sentiment.
Each season the show asks us the same question, “Is love blind?” and we keep answering, “For the millionth time, no.” I will never tire of it. Except for the offshoot After the Alter, but I pretend that show doesn’t exist.
All About Love: New Visions by bell hooks
Speaking of love, this book is kicking my boney little butt. Damn. All About Love should be given to everyone on their 18th birthday with a box of tissues, a bottle of water and a crisp journal. I’d say more, but I’m too busy crying.
Baby miniature horse chasing me
Baby 👏 miniature 👏 horse 👏 chasing 👏 me.
🤯 SWEETIE HATES 🤯
People who hate cats
Grow up. Huge red flag. The hugest. You hate cats? OK, I hate you. How do you feel now? Not very good, I bet.
Oh, you just like dogs better? Wow, how original. Very brave to admit. Should we mail the Medal of Honor straight to your home address, or would you prefer a ceremony? Pathetic.
Joint TikTok accounts
Genuinely unbelievable that millennials spent so many years chastising boomers and small-town sweethearts for having joint Facebook accounts only to turn around now and see a host of generational traitors create couple accounts on TikTok.
I feel like you can’t swipe for more than, say, 20 videos without a random ass couple’s account popping up. It might be called something like @maceynkasey or @theblessedcoopers, created by straight-teethed couples in their twenties who use their accounts to enact borderline abusive pranks, dance, give questionable relationship advice and occasionally exploit their young children. And people eat this shit up! Every time I see a video I rush to the comments to find the most out of pocket comment, yet there is always an unending, dead-eyed stream of praise.
These couples always seem the type who had a punny wedding hashtag and their labradoodle (called Charlie or Milo) prominently featured in their engagement photos. Their homes are white and grey. One of them is way more into running the account than the other, to a haunting degree. One of them is blonde.
They WILL get divorced, I just don’t have the patience to stick around and see why (it’s cheating, obviously, one of them always cheats).
Dairy milk erasure
Visually, I am oat milk-presenting. Sadly, it’s an assumption that couldn’t be further from the truth. “Oat?” a barista will occasionally ask upon taking my order, and I have to shake my head in shame, “regular” I say. They nod, they understand, but I can’t help but perceive a mortified micro-expression flash across their face.
It’s fair that I am insecure about my milk of choice. If you’ve been paying attention, you know that dairy milk slander has been rife throughout culture in recent years, among young people in particular, and I am tired of defending myself. I know it’s cringe and boomer and ick-inducing. But I won’t stop.
I’m sorry that my stomach can handle classic milk. I am not lactose intolerant and I don’t ever intend to be. I try in vain to balance out my effect on the animal supply chain by adopting a mostly-vegetarian diet, but I am not a paragon of perfection. I will be over here, creamy white gold swirling around in my iced latte, laughing, unashamed. Wish you were here.
Thank youuuuu, love you.
xxxxxx