I realized something quite profound this evening.
All of the flack I've received in expressing a genuine emotion, namely my anger at an injustice, my intolerance for deceit and jealousy, has earned me the title of big, bad bitch.
And I finally connected the polka dots and realized why so many hens have their feathers in such a tizzy.
Most women don't believe their voice is worthy of being heard.
If they have any unpleasant thoughts, they fear they are not being nice and should say nothing at all.
They have learned, through their own relationships and judgment, that women who cause conflict are dealt with accordingly.
They are sent to their rooms without ice cream.
They are abandoned and single.
They are mother's disappointment.
And because of their own stifled screams they believe ALL women should cut off their tongues before voicing anything more than a soft purr.
You see I don't think most women are as progressive as they pretend to be.
They don't want to stand strong against the whores of injustice and gossip and lies.
They don't want to say what they're really thinking or listen to anybody who does speak their mind.
They want to be homecoming queen and voted most likely to be adored by the universe.
They want everyone to smile and say hello to them when they walk by even if neither can actually stand each other.
They want compliments and niceties to be tossed around regardless of whether they hold any fragment of sincerity.
They want play acting.
Or as my college mentor phrased it Actor Masturbation; the kind of self indulgent drivel that is purely for the sake of the self righteous actor and communicates no real truth to the audience whatsoever.
Because they dislike the truth.
Because it's ugly and raw and isn't covered in chocolate sprinkles.
But let's say, in spite of their abhorrence for such vulgar words, that everything I wrote were true.
What if someone did slander my name and that cost me my ability to have an income and a career I excelled at?
What if my co worker had been a man?
What if the wrong doing came from a HIM and not a SHE would the women who judged my anger suddenly approve of it?
Would they join with me in damning the man because I could do so much better than that asshole?
Because it'd be okay to use a swear, you know, since he had a penis and not a uterus.
Is it even the truth that these women want?
Or is it merely something pleasant that's easy to swallow?
Would my name calling and their propensity to not see past the ridge of their prissy noses leave them stumbling over their discomfort that I'm a mean mean meanie and used the word FUCK?
Or would they shake their heads with knowing sadness because they too had been scorned by a man for no good reason.
Excuse me, woman.
And we bitches should have each other's backs not stab them when our sales are higher.
But because I am not referring to a man, because I was not deceived by an ex lover but rather a fellow woman was the culprit I am to play nice and remain a demure, delicate flower?
I don't fucking think so.
Contrary to my peer's antiquated opinions I subscribe to the notion that I live in an era where I have the freedom, the choice, the gift, to write and say any and all that I feel.
My passions, my frustrations, my joys.
And even publish them all on some trivial blog for my own amusement and artistic voice.
And unlike all those women terrified to stir any rippling waves around them, I intend to make a splash so triumphantly great that all of the town will be talking about it.
And some of them will gasp in horror at my quickness to verbally flip them off.
But others, the few weird, crazy, outspoken vixens who tire of such forced feminine guises will smile their wicked smiles in quiet agreement with my resolve.
I may behave like a bitch.
But I am a nice girl.
And if you don't accept me as I am, I will not bury the parts you find offensive.
May your own storm clouds stir within you until you're brave enough to set them free.
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