I had to smile when I read this because it is so true.
If you were an alien from another planet, and you landed in my local Tescos, you would think the uniform for the females of this country was a pair of jeans, some type of fleece or parka, and shoulder length hair.
There are no skirts, no high heels, no fully made-up faces, no skin-tight tops, no fucking knitting in the aisles because Tescos is the real world.
And that's the core of the issue here. Gender ideology is not a product of the real world; it is a creature of the hyperreal -- that mythical, fantastical, etheric realm of amorphous meanings and shifting impressions and platonic blueprints of the essence of bloody everything where an armchair slides into "sofa-ness" because it is a touch too upholstered and slightly too long.
Oh, let us decipher where the line between the armchair and the sofa doth lie! Hail, I am neither but a divan, you bigot!
Back in the real world, nobody really cares about any of it . . . until the moment they order a sofa and it comes and only one person can sit on it because it is actually a fucking armchair.
And everyone can see it's an armchair, everyone knows it's an armchair ... but no, we have to have all these people fluttering about, going "I think you'll find it's a sofa because #esoteric reasons."
And not only that, these people tell us that if we persist in thinking such things are armchairs, we are somehow bulwarks prohibiting the path of progress towards some wonderful future where bunnies hop everywhere and cartoon blackbirds chirrup on our shoulders.
I just can't with it anymore.