I love this woman and her obsessive sleuthing. As a teenager, I was often teased by my friends for my attraction to girls on the old clock mystery-solving side, ones who were good at cryptograms and ciphers, girls that the average (basic) bro might refer to as “a detective” or even “a small town crime solver.”
Then, as I became a man and started to educate myself on issues such as the disproportionately rampant kidnapping and murder rates in River Heights and how the media marginalizes women by portraying a very narrow and very specific standard of crime-solving (training, police certification, DNA evidence) I realized how many men have bought into that lie. For me, there is nothing sexier than this woman right here: a notepad, a single attorney father, cute little property trespassing, etc.
Her local county fair drugs-hidden-in-a-carousel crime ring bust won’t be the one featured on national news but it’s the one featured in my life and in my heart. There’s nothing sexier to me than a woman who is both thorough and out for justice; this gorgeous girl I married fills out every inch of her paperwork once she turns in a perp and is still the most beautiful one in the room.
Guys, rethink what society has told you that you should desire. A real woman is not a sassy single lady cop or a hardened retired detective or a tech nerd in the CSI lab. She’s real. She has beautiful dirt marks on her hands from breaking into the shipyard and cute little scars on her neck after being tied to a radiator while following a hunch in the abandoned cotton candy warehouse by the coast.
Girls, don’t ever fool yourself by thinking you have to fit a certain mold to be loved and appreciated. There is a guy out there who is going to celebrate you for exactly who you are, someone who will love you like I love my Nancy.
Why Are You Hiding This Post?
I am the last of my kind.
The final descendant of the Arthur Eld.
I am the lone remaining Feminist since my world moved on. The man in black has the answers I need. He can bring me to The Dark Tower. The Dark Tower – legend slithered down from my mother and her mother and her mother and light years of Feminists beyond holds – is the nexus between the two universes: the old universe of Feminism, and the ever-slipping portal into the universe of Male Approval.
I have been following the man in black for a stretch of desolate time, the exact length of which I’ll never be quite sure of. It could be decades, it could be eons, it could be a fortnight. He eludes me expertly, and yet on some long, journey-filled nights I feel that he could be mere yards ahead. Stories were passed down on scrolls before everything moved on that read that the man in black can help me make Feminism a thing, so that I can finally stop banging my head against the wall.
When I met Josh – a weak, yet whip-smart eleven-year-old boy – he first told me to stop banging my head against the wall. The barn that he slept in was old and the infrastructure was rotting. He said that my head-banging could damage the walls of his only shelter and that I was scaring him.
Meek, innocent Josh. If only he knew. Banging one’s head against the wall is what Feminists do. Though he wouldn’t know that, of course. In my fitful, sun-drenched days, I forget that the lessons of the old world are no more.
Only I remain.
Genevieve was the last real Feminist trainer. She’d round us all up every morning – Becca, Francine, Jillian, and myself – and work us until we bled. I think back to those dewy mornings spent outside in the royal courtyard before everything moved on. The girls and myself were of the Arthur Eld. Our mothers were all fierce, respected Feminists.
No one lived except me. When Genevieve gave us our Final Task to be sent out on our own, they crumbled.
Our challenge upon turning the age of eighteen years was this: To learn that Male Approval is worthless, and that caring about it and basing your level of happiness over a lifetime on whether you have it or not, and that throwing other women under the bus because you want it is, in fact, not our destiny.
Our Final Task was to learn these seemingly impossible truths, accept them, and fashion ourselves an independent lifestyle that did not require the precious drink of Male Approval that we had been raised and bred to believe was life’s real purpose.
Jillian was the first to be banished. She failed the initial Instagram challenge: To look at a handsome man’s photo of his dog, and not immediately assume that he’d make a great boyfriend.
I don’t like thinking about that day. Our morning stretches before Jillian’s Final Task was the last time that I would see her alive. Genevieve was ruthless.
I successfully completed my Final Task. I sent a hawk to peck out every living man’s eyes, so that the male gaze no longer existed.
And then everything moved on.
Josh shakes me awake. I’ve been dreaming again. My dreams are the only place where the old world comes back to me in all its vivid shades.
“I just saw a dark figure walk over that sand hill,” Josh alerts me.
“About how tall was he?! Do you remember? Tell me everything, boy.”
“‘Bout six foot. But with his dark hat, I’d reckon about three more inches than that.”
It was him. The man in black. The one who could finally give me the the relief of not having to bang my Feminist head against the wall anymore. The one who held the secrets of the Tower.
The multi-dimensional, universe-connecting, all-powerful, deadly Tower. Where my world can finally make sense. Where my mission has led me.
The Tower: where Feminism ‘becomes a thing’.
I am the last of my kind. And my head hurts.
Step it up, horror movies.
A scary guy chasing me? The constant threat of attack/murder? Welcome to Thursday. As women, we’ve been raised to be unceasingly aware of every angle of our surroundings, every inch of our appearance, and our public performance art of no eye contact with any male human (lest we give him the obvious impression with our sultry glances that we desperately desire to rip his clothes off right there on the E train,) all to keep ourselves out of physical danger every single day. Cause it’s, ya know, our responsibility. There are gadgets we can buy to keep ourselves safe, too, like mace hiding in a bottle that looks like something else, sharp things that look like kitten ears to attach to our key chains, and even trendy nail polish that changes color if we dip our fingers into a drink that’s been roofied! We’ve got a veritable tool belt of anti-murder shit that we strap on every morning. So yeah…bring it on, Cenobites. You’re no scarier than my old landlord who chased me and grabbed me that one time.
Death is on my mind constantly, as it is with most 20-somethings with a psychiatrist and a bucket of the hottest new SSRI prescriptions.
Wouldn’t this all be so much easier if I were gone?
I’d literally rather die than move from my bed and put on clothes.
If I have to make small talk with a stranger tonight I will walk into the East River.
An alien lands on Earth and chases and eats me? Okay. Cool. Sounds like it’d be a huge load off, actually.
I’m in a lot of student debt. Like, “I have more to pay off in student loans than most people have on their mini-mansion mortgage” a lot.
If us all turning into rotting zombie corpses due to an apocalyptic virus means that I’ll stop getting calls from Discover when I’m late on a payment, I’m all for it.
Vampires Are Sexy
I’ll be bitten and forever transformed into a vicious nocturnal blood hunter by punk-grunge Bill Paxton any night. And then the next night. And the next.
I know our country is in a state of turmoil, but I feel it is urgent to point out that our once peaceful, supportive, a bit-filled Facebook group – whose sole purpose is to discuss The Bachelor with each other as it airs each week – is becoming quite hostile.
Yes, this season is skin-searingly infuriating. From Nick’s constant in-person dumping (instead of following the goddamn rules and waiting for a rose ceremony like a normal fucking human being) of very worthy women to Corinne’s inbred hot toddler behavior that somehow keeps getting rewarded time and time again, I can see why we are all a bit tense, especially with our current political climate. However, I have to put my foot down.
As the supermoderator, it is my job to maintain this Bachelor Facebook group and ensure that it follows friendly, basic guidelines. Did I expect this season to turn us all into wolves of the night and ransack each other’s homes while our children slept?
No. I thought we would perhaps share some funny .gifs approximately three times a week, and maybe even have a fun miscellaneous thread where we recommend uplifting books to each other! Lincoln In The Bardo is great, by the way!
Miranda, I should especially apologize to you. Had I known that the other women and men in this Bachelor Facebook group had been putting together a weeks-long master blueprint to blackmail you and sabotage your career prospects at the finance company you’ve poured twelve years of your life into, – all because you said in a comment reply that you think Danielle M. is ‘dramatic’ – I most certainly would have put a stop to it. Please let me know if you need a place to stay.
Nathan, I’m going to have to ask you to stop sending feces in the mail to anyone who says that they actually didn’t find Nick that charming in BiP. I know that you find his faults effusively charming, but feel free to post a funny sticker comment instead.
We are all angry. This season has tested us to a limit of emotional frustration that we did not know possible.
Sure, Corinne is a ‘bold’ and ‘confident’ contestant, but there’s no need to declare anyone who doesn’t like her a non-feminist, Mary Anne. We love your enthusiastic candor, but she is a straight-up trash baby. Who most definitely voted for Trump. (And that government community building that you burned down in your pro-Corinne rage is going to be very expensive to repair. Did you think that the detectives wouldn’t put together that the fire started at precisely 10:01PM on a Monday evening?)
Let’s remember what we all came together in this Facebook group for. Acceptance, laughs, and the enjoyment of a reality show that demeans our gender.
And to everyone who’s been reaching out to check in on my health: I am typing this from the hospital and my recovery is going smoothly. The quick anger stroke that I experienced when I learned that Nick would not be meeting Rachel’s father on her hometown date did not cause any permanent paralysis, thankfully.
PS: The paperwork for a class-action movement against ABC for airing the most unbearable and unwatchable season of The Bachelor yet should be in your inboxes! Let’s shatter these motherfuckers.
Why Going Outside Is Problematic
Yes, They’re All Getting Brunch Without You. And Science Is Here To Prove It.
Could Pounds Of Raw Cookie Dough Be The Cure-All Medicine We’ve Been Hoping For?
The Facebook ‘Like’ That Will Save Your Friendship
Is He Into You? Only His Last 849 Instagram Posts Can Tell You
Science Says It Would Actually Be Better To Brush Your Teeth Tomorrow Morning Instead Of Tonight
You Need Quarters For Laundry. Here’s Why.
Ways You Can Die If You Go To His Pub Basement Concert Tonight
High school proms are going to be a little different now.
White Flight Night
The Ursine Masquerade
An Evening In Limbo
BYOG: Bring Your Own Gun Extravaganza!
The Golden Age of Hollywood: Blackface Required
One Night At Nakatomi Plaza
1960’s Retro Systematic Oppression Boogie!
Adventure Night: Locked In The Gym By An Under-Treated Mentally Ill Student Who Was Allowed To Bring A Gun In Here
Under The Sea: Climate Change Isn’t Real
None: Students Don’t Know How To Read The Posters That Said Prom Was Happening
Then: “Room 716 at The Palomar.”
Now : “94 Meserole St. The numbers have been blown off the building for a few months – it’s the one with the yellow couch out front! Ring for 3L. But only if it’s before 10pm, because the ring is kind of loud and my roommates might be trying to sleep. If it’s after 10pm, text me and I’ll come down to let you up!”
Then: “I’ll pick you up at 7.”
Now: “What do you wanna do? We can meet somewhere near you or whatever is best for your plans – whatever you want! Let me know. Also, what time is good for you?”
Then: “May I put my arm around you at the drive-in?”
Now: “No, you don’t get it, Tarantino is actually an amalgam of a bunch of different genres. See, here he’s using editing techniques to show – ”
Then: “I’m taking you to Paris for Valentine’s Day.”
Now: “Sam has a couch we can crash on in Allston if we want. Can you buy your own Megabus ticket though? I’m gonna try to get out of work early on Friday. We can try to meet up at Sam’s place and then go see his band. $15 cover I think.”
Then: “I will write you letters once we’ve ship out across the Atlantic. I love you.”
Now: “Sry, things have been crazy! Drinks soon maybe? Swamped for the next few weeks tho.”