Every clothing store in the world thinks I want a shirt that says #selfie in pink, yellow and orange.
Speaking of orange, the fact that the colour orange is ascribed to the female gender is just wrong. Orange? Ew. No one likes that.
No. One. Likes. Bras.
But we wear them because big boobs (and maybe even small ones who knows) sag a centimetre lower every week and by the time I am 35 mine will be in my feet).
The fact that even that won’t deter creepy men. They’ll just want to suck my foot-nipples. 7. Speaking of creepy men. That.
Actually one point isn’t enough for that, creepy men should be points eight through 28.
Creepy men who touch you in he street.
Creepy men who rape you in that same street (because of the cute orange skirt you bought, obvs, because Forever 21 told you that’s what you like)
Creepy men who are mad for being friendzoned.
Creepy nice men who believe you owe them something.
Creepy men, generic.
Creepy men, special services.
Creepy men, young adult category.
Creepy men, middle aged category.
Creepy men, thinks it is a silver fox category.
Creepy men who are mad you won’t list to what you decided for their life.
Creepy men who want to hit you in the face because your face is not cool woman. 26. Creepy men.
Creepy women. I guess, patriarchal is a better term. Patriarchal women.
Women who keep saying “they can’t get along with women”
Women who hate on other women because apparently using eyeliner makes you stupid.
Women hating on other women because reading a book makes you ugly apparently.
All the woman-on-woman hate.
And all the bad woman-on-woman porn.
And the fact that creepy guys call it lesbian sex. I mean..how about just sex? How hard it that? HOW FUCKING HARD?
The social environment that alienates one woman from another. As if liking two different colours is any reason one woman can’t support another.
The gyanecologist and the increasing regularity with which you have to see them as you get older.
The gyanecologist when she tells me to relax with a spotlight shining at my vagina as she peers inside it.
The gyanecologist as she playfully quips that I am so tense she wonders how I am ever able to have successful intercourse.
My stupid stupid mouth because I said: That’s what works for me. Maybe this one is not about being a woman but being a dork. Still counts?
Womanhood made me a dork. Now it counts? 42. Itchy vagina.
The fact that no one ever taught me about yeast infections until I got one at age 19 and was like…whaaaaaat? Is there an infestation of bugs eating me from the inside out?
The fact that they weren’t kidding about this period thing being true, real and lasting sooooooooooooooo long.
I also feel the period thing should be more than one point. So let’s say points 45 through 75. Yes, that’s how much I hate my period.
Biology is sexist. And that I can’t take that up with anybody.
The fact that I have cried at a pen commercial because the girl got an A after much hard word. 50. Why did I cry?
Body no make correct combination of goofy juices and make goofy brain goofier until it thinks it wants baby so much and it lost baby so hard.
Biology sucks. . . . .
The fact that exercise helps them and summoning the will to do that is like stabbing yourself in the already stabbed.
Normal face one day, puffy faced nightmare the next. . . . . .
The fucking period nonsense!
The men who have told me “I should love my period” because it “celebrates my womanhood” 77. The fact that it is illegal to stab them in the testicle. Yes, just one.
The fact that I don’t get a free pass for stabbing one mansplainer in my life. I pick the guy who gave us a ride a few weeks ago, told a horrible joke and then when I didn’t laugh he said, “Oh, I think ma’am didn’t understand the joke, let me explain it to her…” And then he explained it. And then I didn’t laugh again. Then he said I just won’t get it. Then I wanted to stab-stab but can’t because jail-jail won’t give me a get out of it free-free card. Maybe we can win these at women’s athletic events? I am so there. So motivated.
That whole getting abused thing. The entire culture of systemic violence against women is a tad inconvenient.
Not of course as inconvenient of only having bath products that smell of flowers. Like 5 flowers smell good people, the rest smell like butt. None of them smell like shampoo. And also, who decided flowers were girl? Is it because..colours are girly?
Colours are evidently girly.
So is bathing with more than one product. Dudebros all have to compulsorily share the same cracked bar of soap with one hair in it or they lose their dude card and start having their period. Which is an insult, you know? It is an insult to bleed out of your genitals, evidentially.
And while we are on the subject, the fact that you can no longer even choose a lipstick without worrying how that makes you represent.
Representation v/s authentic living: Where is the line?
The fact that no one can answer that.
Some dudebros will definitely take this to mean I hate women and feminists though.
Because obviously. It’s not enough to be hated for being a woman, one must also be hated for being an equal woman.
The fact that a lot of people will tell you fat is the worst thing a woman can be.
Unless you are a woman who had a drink and wore that orange #selfie skirt before she was raped. Then, that’s the worst thing you can be.
Being judged and hated on for speaking out about things that happened to me.
The fact that Nutella seems to gravitate towards the same mouth I speak out of. It’s obviously because Nutella is woman food, which amazingly, I have been told before.
The fact that we have “woman” food. Like salad is evidently not manly. You know lettuce? Such a fragile, womanly thing to do. To eat a leaf full of nutrients.
Stupidity of the people who ask you if you put tampons up your butt. 97. The fact that they giggled when they say tampons.
The fact that THIS is this year that tampons were made essential commodities and stopped being taxed because of a movie about women made by a man, starring a man.
The fact that I can’t have a crisis about a dress and a motorcycle at the same time because I must fit into one box or the other.
But if I drive between the two boxes I’ll probably hit something, because evidently, I cannot drive either. Too busy thinking about what to have written on my next orange T-shirt.