oh, sigmund, how i doubted you. i chased away countless hours in suffocated coffee houses so dim you would swear they were lit by televisions. i sat on a stage wearing a corset ironically and barking out bad feminist poetry like the world's weakest drill seargeant. i was convinced that the crowd couldn't hear my genius because they were too busy staring at my tits and, hey, wasn't that the point of the poem-- to expose the charlatans who used faux empathy as spanish fly? i broiled with rage at your theory that all women, old crone to nubile nymphet all the way down to downy-limbed toddler, existed in either celebratory embrace or else delusional self-denial of the need...the need to have a penis, not in, but on. "impossible!", i trumpeted (never wheedled, of course) for my life has never been about lack.
...apparently, how wrong i was. poor, poor sigmund. now, i'm not one of those sanctimonious bike-riders...at least not sanctimonious because i ride my bike to work, but i cannot tell whether i'm more offended by the people who don't move over at all and nearly
clip
my
handlebars
and
sendmespinningintoaditchohgodohgodohgod!
or...
the folks who swing a huge berth around and make me feel like a giant, two-wheeled monstrosity. either way, 90% of the time when a driver offends me, it is an SUV. ONE HUNDRED PERCENT of the time, the SUV driver is a woman. i don't know if they are not aware of their vehicles' dimensions or what, but i do know that i am wary of how often a grumble to myself, "probably a chick driving that thing!" this afternoon, for example, i was passed by three (!!!!) chevy suburbans in a row, driven by three different soccer moms, and one of the chevys had one of those "happy family" stick people appliques on the back window.
seriously, you'd have thought it was a parade.
ugh.
the point? if we talk about men driving those gigantic machines as compensation for a "shortcoming", perhaps sigmund was right, and all women really want is some form of a penis...even in a modernized form. would but that i could return to the halcyon days of the coffee shop and the microphone that reeked of false anger and other people's spit, i would pen a poem called, "SUV's don't make you a feminist".
god, when did i become such a misogynist?
today's word of the day is syncanthus.
WOW! Very well put. What an idea.
ReplyDeleteHowever, what does all of this say about a man who drives a (relatively) small Prius in a way that does not intimidate others (unless warranted, of course)? Does that mean I have an unconscious need of a...um...*blushing*...you know? Not ON but IN? I just realized that Prius sounds a lot like penis. So I'm riding one? And I REALLY miss driving a stick-shift. What the fuck, Patricia!
I'll make myself feel better. If this is all true, it is only because of a man's incessant and inexplicable need for self-gratification. Yup. It is a focus on HIS OWN personal, um...personals and a desire to "get it done" with what would be an efficient (albeit strange) addition (or subtraction?).
I'm going to be done now. I am really making things worse as I am wont to do--always. I am going to cure my syncanthus now with a hammer an chisel. Hopefully it will not result in people having to refer to me as Pop-eye. *rolls eyes--wait EYE.