I don’t call myself “a misogynist” because such a label is woefully incapable of conveying the vast and murky depths of my misanthropy. Hell, I’m as much a misandrist as anything; on the whole, I find men kind of simple-minded, tribal, and boring. Given the option, I’ll take a cunt over a prick every time.
In fact, what I view as My Misogyny generally manifests as an amiable, amused sort of pity. I’m not angry with women, don’t feel threatened by them, and don’t resent their successes; that sort of thing strikes me as ridiculous. When I get in an elevator with a random woman, I’m not the one who has to become momentarily aware that she is small and I am large and we are all alone. When people are looking for authoritative opinions, I’m not the one who has to worry that the pitch of her voice will render her thoughts instinctively irrelevant and irritating to at least half the room. When we’re at a party and someone inquires about not having kids by 35, I’m not the one who’ll be getting the sad, vaguely smug looks that say “You are defective and will never be whole.”
That’s why angry misogyny perplexes me: it’s so goddamned petty. From where I’m sitting, being a girl is a process wherein you’re yanked from the womb and thrown directly into a never-ending spanking machine made out of misused erections and deferred dreams. If I stretch my eye, I can see that there are a few perks that go with that extra X chromosome, but I can’t think of a single one that I covet. It’s simply a shit gig, the socio-sexual equivalent of working the drive-through window at McDonald’s. If you’re a guy, I figure the very least you can do is let the girls do their jobs and not yell too much when they get their orders wrong.
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