There’s not enough filth on Facebook these days.

I mean, there are plenty of scumbags on the social media platform, that’s not in question. But I’m beginning to question the algorithm that’s making the Zuckerberg family so rich. Because the suggested content the bastard keeps chucking my way isn’t doing me any favours.

Now, I try not to direct my writing at a particular gender but, let’s face it, I know my audience. Other than being related to me or in my inner friendship circle (I like to think of it as a cone of cool, or a cylinder of sassy) my readers largely have one thing in common – the sinful void between their legs that means they’ll get paid 20 per cent less than male colleagues and makes older creepy customers feel they have a right to ask you’re married while you’re trying to work.

 

I don’t want to get up on my high horse, because riding a beast is dangerous enough without getting illicit substances involved, but I’m getting annoyed with the shit Facebook keeps suggesting I read because I have the ability to make my own milk (which I can imagine would be super handy if the shops were closed and I wanted to make a batch of porridge).

 

For some reason, Facebook seems to think I like reading articles about pubic hair. I know they serve a purpose; generating conversation about the mindless habits we engage in because of deeply engrained cultural beliefs about gender is important. It really is.

 

And I’m not dissing it. I love reading too much into things. My hobby is overthinking something simple until it becomes a CIA conspiracy. I’m like a bloodhound: I can sniff out underlying reasons and motivations you never knew existed. But every time I read something about a well-informed, fantastic woman deciding not to purge the pubes I get super angry.

 

Sure they give you all these pro-woman reasons not for landscaping the lower region, like the fact that the groin hair is like a first line of defence for grit and grime getting up in your ‘gine. They say that it reinforces the dated ideal that women need to be perfect for men. They graphically detail how painful yanking those dark, curly suckers can be. These are all good reasons and they often are put forward in funny, informative ways.

 

But sometimes theoretical arguments don’t come into play at all. Sometimes, despite all the complex layers of socialisation and normalisation of particular perspectives on gender roles and discrimination awareness, things are simpler. Sometimes you can’t read into someone else’s decision any deeper than the stubbly  surface.

 

I’m not saying we shouldn’t continue unpacking the bigger reasons behind the seemingly tiny things we do with our lives. What I’m saying is that we need to fully unpack that box (pun definitely intended). We have to get out the old tissues and the embarrassing love notes and that squashed banana slowly deteriorating under a sock. If bastards are going to keep coming out with “I’m calling it” or “let’s be honest” articles, we need to expose the gritty truth. Because every time I read a woman telling me to leave it to beaver I can’t help but think, “homegurl has clearly never had her discharge fuse the hairs together from both flaps and woke up in excruciating pain after trying to move her thighs apart in her sleep” or “sweetheart seems to forget about how rogue hairs sometimes grow upwards and inwards, irritating the fuck out of your vulva like you used a cactus as a tampon or something”. Because I like to think that I’m not alone in my agony. And sisterhood is about standing together, isn’t it?