Mamma Mia (Queer I Go Again)

The amount of times I’ve told myself not to start a blog, I’ve become a parody of myself. I’ve told myself that white girls with blogs are the same as white guys with podcasts, a crime as atrocious and “basic” as my Jane Eyre laptop case. There’s a good point to be had about the inherent cutesy white supremacy of this over saturation of white voices, just like there is about every first year white feminist’s appreciation for Bronte. But somewhere along the line, it’s become resistance for resistance sake — apparently the final thread of my teenage hipsterness. I grew up just young enough for blogs to be both prevalent and cringe, cool and out of fashion. I don’t read many blogs, and I’m sorry about that. I can’t shake the feeling that they’re Linkedin for arts students at best, and livestreamed masturbation at their worst. It’s a little ridiculous. I will watch vloggers and game streamers and listen to podcasts; I adore diary comics and Snapchat stories, and my own Twitter is a stream