Rant

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Misogyny is a funny thing, when you think about it.
I mean, it's not funny in a Ha Ha sort of way, of course.
It's just...
How many guys see one of their female friends
(See! They aren't misogynists! They have women who are Just Friends!)
Angry and crying and instinctively think
"That Time Of The Month."
How many guys always want to drive because deep down
Deep deep deep deep down
They honestly assume, without cause
That they are better drivers than their woman passengers.
How many guys associate 'feminist'
With hairy-legged angry lesbian with blue hair and an eyebrow piercing?
How many guys assume they need to help
With everything
And I do mean everything
Because it's 'chivalrous.'
Clearly, nothing gets those panties dropping
Like calling a chick incompetent.
If a guy doesn't say 'twat'
But assumes without question every girl wants to have a happily-ever-after marriage
He's still an asshole.
Maybe a bigger one.
Cause 'cunt' 'bitch' 'twat' 'ho'
They're just words.
And words have no real power
Said the writer.
But ideas.
Ideas are where the poison hides.
Latent, shadowed thoughts,
Assumed superiority
These are the men who really make
A feminist's skin crawl.

Don't You Dare

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Hey there you,
yes you.
You there little girl -
Why won't you look at me?
Why won't you answer?
You know I'm talking to you,
Kid.
So listen up.
Wipe those stupid tears away right now.
Right Now.
Seriously.
What is wrong with you?
What reason do you have to cry?
Is this about him?
Oh honey, oh child,
This better not be about him.
Do you think he's crying about you right now?
Well?
Do you?
Yeah.
That's what I thought.
So why are you crying over him?
Remember in kindergarten?
It wasn't all that long ago.
They told you the Golden Rule:
Treat Others As You Want To Be Treated.
Well, he's not treating you with sympathy,
compassion, respect, understanding,
Tears.
So why are you?
Now wash your face,
And brush your hair,
And take that damn black hoodie off -
For crying out loud, is that really the kind of girl you are?
The kind that cries over boys
When they don't cry over her?
Yeah.
You're welcome.
Now don't you dare apologize.

Wishful Thinking (a letter to myself, 6 months ago)

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Every girl thinks she can be the one to "fix him."

You can't.

No, seriously. Stop trying right now. This will only end one way: with you curled up in the corner of your room, listening to Charlotte Sometimes and wondering why it didn't work.

You wanna know why it didn't work? Cause you have no magical power over men. This isn't Gilmore Girls, there's no reason whatsoever you should be able to make him a better person. He doesn't want to be a better person. He really, really likes who he is now.

Think about it. If this guy had any desire to change, doncha think he would've self-motivated by now? What makes you think you're so special you can put the desire for change in his head?

You are such a narcissist.

Now, what do you say we go find ourselves a new project? Like knitting. If you find a flaw in that scarf, just unravel it and start over.

I promise it will be a lot less frustrating than this.

Untitled

On cold days, she thinks about missed opportunities. She'll sit on the bed and listen to playlists called "pity party" and "last love story" with a blanket wrapped up around her chin like fuzzy armor. She also makes tea, which she sometimes doesn't drink, just lets it perfume the air with Chamomile Lullaby or Pan Asia Green.

Today was one of those days, and she was back to that dangerous trap of "what-if" that makes cold days so treacherous. It was this sort of thinking, she would tell herself later, that made it so difficult to move forward, but that warning would always come too late.

Instead she was thinking about him. About car rides out to Lake Michigan in the middle of the night, about inside jokes, and that stupid Christmas present when she joked about ever little girl wanting a pony. She remembered crying on his shoulder when her little sister got into that car accident and he took her to the hospital. He didn't even make a joke about women drivers for once.

And then there was that mixtape. A real, honest-to-goodness mixtape he made her after she dragged him to Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist and he insisted that there was no way his girl was going to be swooning over a pussy like Michael Cera. She'd thought it was all stupid bravado until he handed her the CD the next time he came over.

Speaking of... she walked over to the back closet with her rainboots and dog walking coat. Standing on her toes, she pulled out the "vintage" hatbox she'd gotten at Marshall's and stored on the top shelf just in case.

Yep.

There it was.

Without pausing to think, she popped it into her laptop and waited for the first chord of +44's "Make you smile." Listening to it again... it was almost like a month ago. Back before the shouting, the crying, the passive-aggressive Facebook statuses.

But then, as she kept listening, wrapped in her fleece blanket and staring at the steam coming off of her tea that the rest started pouring back. Those little misogynistic digs, that god-awful hoodie, every time he stood her up, the smell of cigarettes in his car. And of course, Her.

The CD had ended, and the only sound left in the room was the whirring of her computer and her breathing. She needed to get up, out of the apartment, but her inner cheerleader was too busy worrying about the mascara smudges she was bound to have under her eyes.

She tapped eject, satisfied with the solid "click" her keyboard made, carefully returned the disk to its case, the case to the hatbox. She then walked over to the closet, pulled out the rainboots, and took that damn hatbox out to the dumpster. It was time.