Bad Mood

I’m supposed to be a feminist. Yet here I am, self destructing on dick as usual. Oh, the other feminists would vote me off the island if they knew about all the shit I did when no one was looking. The company I kept. The dicks I sucked. I feel like I should feel guilty, but I don’t, because I’m a woman, and feminism is for me, even when I make bad decisions. That’s the beauty of the movement – it is what I want it to be because it’s by me and for me.

I feel alone. Which is why I’m doing these bad things in the first place – being bad is an easy way to feel a sense of companionship in a dark place. And, honestly, the companionship that I have in the feminist movement…doesn’t really do it for me. I know, I know, I’m not supposed to say that out loud. I’m supposed to belong and toe the party line. But, fuck it, I don’t want to.

The feminist movement is too bright and too pure for a monster like me. I feel ugly around everyone else whenever I’m there, like my ideas are too gauche and my face is too big. The only reason I showed up to the feminist movement is because I never knew how to abide by the status quo, but now that feminism is its own type of status quo, I’m feeling itchy in my skin again.

I’m not allowed to criticize the feminist movement. I made too much money off it to speak out about things I find to be trifling. I’m not allowed to admit that I like it when he grabs me by the throat and tells me to bark like a dog because I’m depressed and it’s the only thing that takes me outside of myself. I’m supposed to bark at him to get his hands off me and then I’m supposed to leave, but I can’t because, like I said, I’m lonely. I’d rather be with him without my morals than alone and totally pure. Unfortunately, he knows this, and I am losing more than just my morals when I’m with him, I’m losing my sense of self, which isn’t his fault because I’m the one who showed up here in the first place.

Feminism doesn’t fulfill me. Not the way ten inches of toxic dick does. Feminism wasn’t there for me with its riant platitudes and nacreous ideals. Feminism didn’t hold my hand and tell me it was going to be okay. He did, and this is the price I pay. Late at night, when it’s dark, I’m sick of being a feminist, so I let him fuck me in a way that hurts me because I can’t think of a better anodyne for right now. Feminism could never do that for me.

So. This is my eloquent cop out. My emotions and my need to luge through a netherworld of irresponsibility. I want to feel small for a moment, and he lets me be small in a world that expects me to be big. I want to shrink in his arms as far away from the person that I am supposed to be, and he will hold me, and he will tell me everything will be okay, even if shrinking into myself is only me, getting closer and closer to the person who will one day fucking kill me.

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