8 March is International Women’s Day and we absolutely do not want to celebrate it with any flowers or chocolate. What we want is a feminist revolution.

In November, Argentina’s president Alberto Fernandez presented a bill to Congress to legalise abortion, becoming the country’s first president in history to endorse an abortion bill.

I caught my 55+ white, male-identifying, neighbor recording me. I was dancing in my living room, participating in a fundraising event for an organization for differently abled folks. But does that matter?

Men are excellent at claiming a space as their own. They can remove safety from a city block with the flick of their tongue. This skill is transferable on digital platforms as well. I was recently attacked on my own social media profile for having a body that a white man, over the age of sixty, deemed fuckable.

The older generation often finds humour in the anxieties possessed by Gen Z and millennials as if our intergenerational trauma does not stem from the failures of boomers. We may be afraid to send our orders back in fear of ruining someone’s day but we’ll chokeslam a racist and milibop on a cop car to hear you say her/they’re/his name.

It’s hard to talk about bisexuality without making it sound like a sob story. I promise it’s not my aim; I always wish to engage in open and constructive conversations about sexuality so I hope you keep that in mind when reading these lines.

It’s no secret that self-identifying as a “feminist” in 2020 is often met with backlash, insults, and rebuttals that feminists are just “angry lesbians who hate men and grow armpit hair.”

I never thought I had a problem. I started drinking at 21 and by now (31) I figured I had the hang of it. I hadn’t done it ages so it wasn’t really an issue right? The “it” I’m referring to is vomiting.

As an argentine and a native Spanish speaker that has lived in the UK for five years, it always struck me as odd that most people (including some radical feminists) commonly call gender-based violence, ‘domestic’.