I often refer to Google as my religion, so I really hope they pull their heads out of their asses here.
‘Cause, yeah, I can have principles and change my email addresses and use different search engines and storage sites, but…it’s fucking Google. No one cares. I’d be like those assholes who tried to boycott “Hamilton” — sure, sweetie, good luck with that.
Also, I mean…you can’t get that data? Can’t you just Google it?
“When Cristina McAllister was growing up, it was hard to find a science kit for girls that wasn’t just a make-your-own make-up or soap kit. Meanwhile, the kits marketed to boys had all kinds of cool and complicated experiments just across the toy store aisle.
“Years later, McAllister is working hard doing real-life science as a biologist and … decided to make Stembox, a monthly-subscription box of real science-y goodness delivered right to your door. Think Birchbox meets Bill Nye.”
The other day I got high-fived for figuring out (in 2 minutes) how to turn on a man’s TV and sound system without assistance, despite the warning: “It’s really complicated, my parents and ex both needed me to do it for them.”
1. Fuck you.
2. What kinda dumbass triflin’ bitches have been up in here trying to operate your shit? They’re power buttons, not a goddamn space shuttle.
3. I lived with a nerd (term of endearment) for years — I dabble in your language, dickweed (NOT a term of endearment).
Something about the whole exchange felt condescending, like you’re impressed that a mere woman can figure out how to handle three big, manly remote controls. Ease back, Freud — I got this.