I hear/read/talk/bitch a lot about women’s rights. That’s good, and necessary, and let’s not stop. But also, can we talk about women’s responsibilities? Because I’m embarrassed by so many girls—some women, but mostly girls—who should think about being women sooner rather than later (including me). Embarrassment is not my favourite sensation. Help me not to feel it. Also, help your goddamn self.
YOU, FEMALE LIVING PERSON, ARE RESPONSIBLE…
…to not think-out-loud about how fat you are. Not on streetcars, not at dive bars, not on Twitter, not on Tumblr, not here, not there, not fucking anywhere. First of all, if you’re actually fat, you’re not talking about it. Secondly, shut up. Just shut up. Fat talk is as contagious as airborne herpes and no more welcome to like the general population. Nobody cares if you’re fat; the person hearing you complain about it only cares if she’s fat. If you say you’re feeling “big,” 10-to-two odds are some other girl’s sitting there anguishing over how “big” that makes her in comparison. So: you’re permitted to yawp about your non-fitting monokinis and the John Belushi-like way this makes you feel to either your most sensible, bestest girls or your lover-person, who will duly tell you to go eat a steak. In any other sitch in which fat-feelings burble up from the depths of your socially encouraged self-loathing, you are required to eat it with a side of yam fries. (They have really good ones at the Universal Grill.)
…to be the hell quiet about your cleanses, detoxes, best-selling fad diets and high-functioning-anorexia-disguised-as-veganism. If only because all of that is boring.
…to read news about other women. I don’t mean super-famous women, or women on hyper-reality TV, or women who were once seen with George Clooney. Tabloids are rank poison, and I’m going on the record as saying I would rather do crack than read that shit on even an irregular basis, and I mean it. No, I’m saying read about women like Terri-Jean Bedford, the dominatrix protesting Canada’s prostitution laws by carrying a riding crop to the Supreme Court. That woman should have her own Bravo show. Why, in Tuesday’s Toronto Star, was her story on page A6 and a story about what Kate Middleton wore to go shopping on A3? Because people are stupid, and girls aren’t the exception. Here’s a hint: TRY.
…for what’s in your drink. One of my friends once went to an electro show and left in a jellied mess, carried by friends, ’cause she’d taken a drink from some dickbag. My thoughts in order: a) STAB HIM; b) how could she be so stupid?; c) how many times have I been that stupid? I’ve taken candy from strangers—which, bless your effing heart if you think I mean actual candy—and if something had happened to me, I would have blamed, in part, me. I wouldn’t tell anyone else to blame herself, but I’d blame myself, I’ll just say that.
…to quit the derogatory usage of “slut” and “whore” and other unsuccessfully reclaimed words. I’m revolted by how many of my friends say “slut” and suchlike to describe females who dress or behave badly; females whom their boyfriends/crushes find attractive; females of whom they’re irrationally jealz. Here’s a recent, true-life usage, as remembered from my BBM: “I was called up on stage to make out with Usher… and then he picked some blonde whore instead.” Ew. Ew ew ew. How old are you, first of all? Old enough to have seen Mean Girls more than once? I’ve got nothin’ Tina Fey hasn’t already said. Learn it. However, if some girl sleeps with a man you call “yours,” all bets are off and they’re both whorrific world-tramping slutty slut-diseased doucheslags. Feel better now?
…for your orgasms. Most guys honestly don’t know that they’re bringing you about as close to orgasm as the Princess was to the Pea and that only through your parapsychological powers of sensitivity can you even, barely, feel the cumming through all the layers of tongue-flailing and aimlessness. So: don’t scream like it hit you in the face. When you fake it, you’re letting a) guys continue to suck, or whatever it is they think they’re doing, in bed and b) the rest of us down.
…to pay your own way in life. Yeah, I don’t care how pretty you are. When on a date with a guy, please refrain from looking at the restaurant bill like it’s a baby spider in your radicchio. If you want the same R-E-S-P-you-know-the-rest, pay the same amount. There aren’t a lot of truly simple things in life and this is one of them. Cherish it. Hold it tightly. Don’t ever let it go. (Okay, this is different if you share your life with someone who makes considerably more than you. My feeling is, you should pay the same percentage of your earnings toward your shared life. Makes sense, no? My boyfriend has coughed up for more rent/trips/dinners, dollar for dollar, but only because he is sure I will make lots of money someday—oh yeah, can you please not tell him I’m a writer?—and support him in his premature retirement.)
…for your self-esteem, and this means not listening to self-esteem pop or anyone who says you’re perfect. Do you hear Jay-fucking-Z rapping to dudes about how they’re perfect just the way they be? Ever heard a Stroke talk about how he’s a beautiful burst of true-coloured fireworks that makes stars pale in comparison and the sky feel blessed by God? No, right? That’s ’cause guys (super-loosely speaking, straight guys) are sanguine enough in their guyness to not require number-one anthems of hyperbolic over-consolation. Nor do they read self-help books about how to “celebrate” their “flaws.” Nor, in my not-limited experience, do wannabe-men talk about “just being themselves,” because, duh. You were born this way. Now strive to be (and I’m saying be, not look) better. Ain’t but one thing that’s gonna hold you down, and that’s the airbrushed, slicked-on attitude that you’re a precious gem of beinghood that doesn’t ever need to change. Changing is, quite obviously, the only way you get to be a better person. Anyone who tells you not to change is someone who doesn’t care if you lose at life. Girl, it’s just human sense. Just like you’re not inferior, you’re also nowhere close to being “perfect,” you’re not even consistently amazing, you definitely need to fix like six things about yourself, and you can stop singing total bullshit into your hairbrush, like, now.
