I am Not a Number! Or Cis.
So... I recently got accused of being 'cis'. And yes, I do mean 'accused'- I'm pretty feckin' sure it wasn't meant as a compliment. Er, no actually. No I'm not. I come from an underprivileged working-class background, belong to a fringe sexuality (as is the ENTIRE FUCKING ORIGINAL POINT OF THIS BLOG AND IS IN ITS TITLE) and suffer from (albeit mild) mental health issues. If I'm cis, Nelson Mandela is Snow White. I am in a slightly privileged position because I'm white- but that's cancelled out by being working class, and because I'm male- which is slightly detracted from by my odd sexuality and effeminate, non-dominating mannerisms (yes, I'm actually quite polite and self-effacing in person, regardless of what impressions my writing style gives here). So no, I am not fucking 'cis'.
Also, while we're on the subject, I'd like to address the use of the word 'cis' in general. It's a good bit of shorthand for describing the sociocultural elite. Personally, I'd still say 'sociocultural elite' instead, because I'm a showoff, but to each their own. However, it seems to have become the subject of a form of inverted snobbery in some circles, whereby people seek to portray themselves as less cis than whatever motherfucker they feel like disagreeing with most that day. I'm not going to name names, but some people seem to use it as a stick to beat other people with when they decide their opinions aren't valid- the argument being that if you haven't suffered THE EXACT SAME DEPRIVATIONS AS THEM, you have no right to comment... even if you're situation is actually sort of similar.
The reason I bring this up is that a blog post I wrote recently managed to create a small but surprisingly potent shitstorm. And over something totally irrelevant. The thing I blogged about, I didn't really have much of an opinion on: it just gave me an excuse to make some puerile jokes about genitals and drag up references to bad '80s films set in Northern Ireland. But the next thing I knew it was being held up as an example of priveleged prejudice... on the grounds of really very little evidence, especially given that there was an important request at the end asking people to inform me of the real issues and arguments surrounding the thing so I could correct the hole in my knowledge and offer support the cause I was being accused of harpooning. Da fuq?
So, new Secret Diary of a Fat Admirer rule: if you disagree with me, how about getting in touch with me via the 'ask' button and trying to change my mind using rational argument rather than just taking a blog and running with it. Aside from anything else, half the time the differences in opinion won't be half as bad as you think, since 2/3 of what I say should be taken with a pinch of salt because I do revel in controversial and puerile humour, and a certain amount of wordcount is expended on it. Take, for example, my repeated references to Anne Widdecombe looking like a melting waxworth with a single, monstrous tit... obviously I don't have that much of a personal vendetta against the woman. She's fair-game because she's a fucking Tory, but beyond that I don't bear her any ill will. Obviously, that's not the content people objected to in one of my recent blogs, but its the same basic principle: there's no need to fly off the handle over what is, essentially, a very silly collection of jokes written for the enternmaintent of whoever happens to stumble across them. Especially when if people had found them really, deeply offensive, I probably would have just deleted the things to spare folks' feelings. Eesh.
