I’ve been a serially married white female for as long as I can remember, Pumpkins. I started young, what can I say.
Strictly speaking, my skin is more of an oatmeal beige. Not a colour I search out in the Amazon drapery pages, I can assure you.
I didn’t really have a choice in the matter, though – the oatmeal, I mean. The husbands I freely chose to discard after use.
It’s one of those accidents of birth like being the Queen or having large ears. There’s no return policy if it doesn’t match the carpet.
As it’s all a crap shoot, dahrlings, I’m a little befuddled about the hooha where someone decided a skin colour or gender is better than another. Wait til the little green ones start landing (which the Pentagon says they have). We’ll need a calibrated chart for colour, planet, tentacles… gender might be challenging as I hear the whole binary thing has evolved up there.
But anyone who knows me knows I’ve always been a great equality advocate, Pumpkins, as I tend to be equally offensive to everyone.
And with the aged dating scene I’m reduced to, a member can be any colour of the rainbow as long as there’s a wad of gold at the end of it.
The only humanoid breed that gets my hackles up are white men in power raised at the teat of privilege. It’s not to say that we don’t all have reparations to make to our indigenous friends, our olive and brown shaded friends. We do. I do. But boys, time to make space at the top. Just sayin’.