Friday Ephemera
Elsewhere (284)

She’s Very Tired, You Know

Lifted from the comments, an unhappy Twitter exchange. As it’s couched in the contortions of “social justice,” and therefore not entirely honest, or indeed remotely honest, I’ll attempt to paraphrase:

Pretentious Woke-ling

“I’m a student of critical race theory and I’ve decided to get preposterously upset because you favourably quoted one of my super-woke boilerplate tweets. You should now pay me for my insufferable narcissism, on account of my Designated Victim Group status.”

Everyday Mentalism:  

“We’re sorry for quoting one of your tweets, which was obviously a traumatic violation of your Designated Victim Group status. However, the employee who quoted you is black, queer and non-binary, and therefore also a Designated Victim. So, although we’ll pretend to be sorry - because we all have to pretend, otherwise the whole racket will collapse - you really shouldn’t be applying our insane standards to us.”

Much theatrical fretting ensues. You see, quoting someone’s tweet, favourably, is, it says here, “causing harm.”

When not gargling “critical race theory” and being terribly oppressed by people quoting her tweets, Sydne is apparently an expert in “indigenous knowledge… and resistance,” and spends her leisure time thwarting pipeline construction, obstructing traffic, “jumping fences” and “chasing councils out of buildings.” Which may explain why she admits, or rather boasts, “I don’t know what I'm going to do… after I graduate.”

Yes  Sydne is actually looking down her nose at you.

I know. She doesn’t look the type.

[ Added via the comments: ]

This, then, is a severely educated young woman who rails against “the coloniser” and claims that the construction of a pipeline constitutes “genocide,” and who romanticises the “old ways” of “indigenous” existence – all that “sacred fire” - while doing her make-up on YouTube.

So pondering her opinions is perhaps not the most rewarding use of one’s time.

But note the conceit that regurgitating standard identity-politics tropes, the kind of “emotional labour” vanities found throughout the Clown Quarter, somehow constitutes profound and original thought, something one can claim ownership of, and thereby demand royalties. As if these were Ms Rain’s own ideas, generated by her own mighty brain. And not the flatulent default of her chosen environment, and mouthed on every elite campus and in the pages of the New York Times.