It has come to my notice that I'm a 'little bitch'. Well, in the world according to that all-knowing oracle Kate Langbroek, I am a 'little bitch'. Why am I a little bitch? It's because I have had the Covid vaccine. She has praised No-Vax, er Novak Djokovic for his stance in refusing to line up with all the other 'little bitches'. I understand she said this on The Project, which I must admit to not having watched in the vicinity of forever because of panelists like her and the miserably loathsome Steve Price.
If the vaccine can mitigate the effects of Covid and help you protect the more vulnerable of the community, then I will take it. I've had Covid. It sucked. I cannot imagine what it would have been like had I not been vaccinated. The vaccine can also minimise the incidence of people become desperately ill and requiring intubation. Ever seen someone you love, a vulnerable person, with a tube down their throat after having had Covid, Kate? I have. It's something that gets burned into your memory as though tattooed with poisonous burning ink. I wish I could forget it. I can't. Kate can take her snide flippancy and shove it straight back up her arse. The Tinfoil-Hat Brigade (oh, by the way, Kate; I've plenty of spare foil if you need some - I checked when I was making my shopping list the other day) can be as devil-may-care and dismissive as they like, but they'd no doubt make the lives of the heroic nursing staff utter misery when they're hospitalised from the after-effects of Covid, after-effects that would have been likely less severe had they been vaccinated.
So, maybe I'm a little bitch because I had a vaccine, in the world according to Kate Langbroek. So what? It's better than being an ignorant bitch whose arse is jealous of the shit coming out her mouth.
Years ago, I read Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad for a university course I was doing. Thought the themes and storyline interesting, but didn't enjoy the prose. Last week, I realised I would have to read it again for one of my current uni subjects. I sighed, and scoured my bookshelves for my old copy. I found Puberty Blues, heaps of Stephen King books, a few Carl Hiassens, a plethora of Maeve Binchy books, some of my own books, cookbooks by the dozen (my husband and I are keen amateur chefs), David Cassidy's autobiography (don't judge me), and anthologies of poetry. Did I find Heart of Darkness? No. This kind of aligns with Alanis Morrisset's flawed notion of irony; I've apparently donated the book to Vinnies after many, many years, only to find I need to read the damn thing again. Thank goodness for e-book libraries. Anyway, I did some reading about Conrad to understand the novel's setting and context, and waded through the first chapter this afternoon. What do you know? I kind of, well, got it. Sure, the narrator Marlowe waffles on like a marathon in the kitchen of Pancakes at the Rocks, but I actually rather enjoyed reading it now that I understand it's Conrad's indictment on colonialism. Maybe the winding sentence structure reflects the symbol of the winding river in the book. Or maybe Conrad had taken a challenge to write the most lengthy and exhausting sentences ever attributed to a frame narrator he could. Whatever. But the good thing is: I just mind enjoy this book second time around.
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