Category: Essays & Bad Ideas

I hate asks that start that way; it just doesn’t make sense to me.

“What would you do with me if you owned me for 24 hours?” How the fuck should I know, nitwit? Who are you? What are you?

I mean, okay, if you happened to be conventionally pretty, maybe “I’d bury a load in you” would be the most direct response. Even if you’re a complete tabula rasa to me, you’re still a woman and I’m still a man; reducing you to a series of satisfying curves and openings for the purposes of my erection more or less comes naturally to us both. But it comes naturally to just about any brain-dead frat-boy and his drunken, slutty prey, too; you surely want something other than that from me.

Yep, if you’re coming to me, you’re wanting more than just a bruised cervix. You want your mixed-up little head unlocked and pawed through like a bargain bin full of old, scratched-up DVDs with titles like Daddy’s Little Burdensome Obligation, Mom’s Life And How I Ruined It, and that deathless classic, When Uncles With Boundary Issues Attack. But that shit doesn’t happen without some prep work.

Mindfucking a cunt is all about knowing her background; the things that have happened that shouldn’t, the dreams that seemed within reach but weren’t. It’s about trawling through the swamp of her memory for the unburied bodies she hides there. It’s about finding that one spot on her flesh that she hates the most, that square inch of microscopically discolored or wrinkled skin into which she has squeezed a lifetime of self-loathing, and poking that shit with a pointy stick until she cries from the relief of being understood.

See, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t answer your lame hypothetical question without first understanding what makes you tick; after all, what I ultimately want to do to you is whatever it is that scares you the most.

…often have penises.

Ain’t that right, bitches?

I torture you and you pray to me in apology. I break you and you hobble to me for protection. I abandon you and you lose yourself in my wake. I debase the coin of your virtue, and you respect me for the clever theft. I forget sometimes you are human, and those are the times you like me best.

You need never ask what I feel for you, dear girls. Whatever else could I feel, save love and contempt?

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.

copyright © 2015 bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls

I greatly admire Theodore Roosevelt, the 26th President of the United States. For those who are unaware, there are two basic ways to describe him.

The first relies upon your imagination: summon before your mind’s eye a single human being whose physical, behavioral, and philosophical characteristics are a composite of every positive and negative cliché that springs to mind when you read the word “American”. Teddy was that fucking guy.

The other way uses information: T.R. was a literally-saber-rattling warrior, who gave us the “speak softly and carry a big stick” approach to diplomacy, while winning a Nobel Peace Prize for negotiating the end of a war between the Russian and Japanese Empires. The man was crazy-tough and determined; someone shot him on his way to a campaign event, but he shrugged it off as a minor inconvenience, and went on to deliver his ninety minute speech with the bullet still inside him. He was a trust-busting friend of the working man, the scion of a wealthy family who was considered a turncoat by the monied elite. He was a bigger-than-life individual who –despite holding a few of-his-time ideas that would be alarming today– was ultimately one of the most significant progressives of the modern era.

But for my purposes, he was primarily a passionate conservationist. Teddy loved the natural world even more than he hated being called “Teddy,” and arguably did more to safeguard the land and all that lives upon it than any other American, before or since. He was an avid hunter and fisherman who knew our wondrous, complicated planet was a finite, shared resource that must be nurtured and allowed opportunities to grow wild and free.

Teddy cared for Mother Earth and protected her, so that she would always be his to prey upon.

…and now you know how I call myself a feminist.

If I ever tell you “I’ll pull out,” then I’m telling a lie.

If I ever tell you “This is gonna hurt,” then I’m not.