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Photo by Brooke Cagle on Unsplash

A Day in the Life of a Feminist

The alarm buzzes. Ugh. Snooze. I roll over and come face to face with my longtime boyfriend. I mean, partner. He’s not my fiancé or husband because I don’t believe in the patriarchal trap of marriage and he’s not my boyfriend because I hate males so much I refuse to use the word “boy” or “man” in any fashion. He’s snoring. Ugh, so gross. Well, he’s good for one thing and one thing exactly.

I get up and slip on my robe just in case some Peeping Tom is at the window to ogle my body parts. Males are always trying to look at me and rape me. Sometimes, the look is the rape. I cinch the tie of my robe.

I trudge to the bathroom and begin my beauty rituals. It’s important to look stunning enough to be able to manipulate any male I want, but homely enough that no one can make a mistake that I’ve bought into the patriarchy. I have a feminist book club meeting tonight and my fellow womyn would be completely affronted by my glitter eyeshadow. I’ll save that for when I need to fool males into thinking I’m a higher species, as indicated by my speckled eyelids. Better go for the minimalist look today…Sandra Bullock would be proud.

I’m almost tempted to shave, but remind myself that the patriarchy has instilled that urge in me. I’ll have to deal with the prickliness. Hey, it matches my demeanor.

Getting dressed is always a delicate balance between my need to subvert the patriarchy but also communicate to people, especially males, that I am a badass bitch who will eat them alive should they cross me. Beta females had better take note as well. So…heels or flats? I think again about the book club. But also, I have an important presentation today at work. Stilettos would certainly add to the dangerous vibe I’m going for, but they also have the unfortunate side effect of drawing the attention of lower males who think I’m flattered when they yell at me. And if I’m being honest, they are a little hard to walk in.

Eh…maybe pumps, today.

Ah, the fawning male is up. He comes and wraps his arms around me, interrupting my deep thought about how best to take down the patriarchy today. “Morning, sunshine,” he says.

Barf.

“Morning,” I say curtly. “I’ve got to get ready.” I give him a peck on the lips, which he seems happy with. Poor guy, he thinks I actually love him.

I’m off to work. The pumps still elicit some catcalls, but eh, let the males fawn over me today. I need the confidence boost. Besides, it’s not like I have to respond. It is a little distracting from my morning power-walk, during which I think through all my tasks for the day. Today is a big day. I have to:

  • Make my male supervisor look foolish at work by rejecting his inevitable advances, then make a sexual harassment complaint to ruin his career.
  • Brainstorm fundraising ideas for the board meeting of Feminists for Male Suicide.
  • Find time to write on Medium about how much I hate males.

I stroll into my office and avoid eye contact with the mailroom guy who keeps sending me flowers and holding doors for me. I’m sure he’s a nice guy, and that’s just a total turnoff for me. I only like assholes.

First meeting of the day. It’s time for one of the few pleasures of my job: to talk about something I don’t understand so that when a male coworker corrects me, I can call him a mansplainer and get others to laugh at him.

The opportunity seems to be at hand; we’re discussing the basic functions of our jobs, which of course I don’t know because I am, honestly, not at all qualified for my position and actually should be at home in the kitchen. I just enjoy the sense of self-worth that I’ve poached from the hardworking males who lost this job opportunity because I decided to enter the workforce. Thank you, feminists of generations past, for working so hard to enable the weaker sex to lay claim to high-paying jobs!

“I’ve evaluated the three vendors,” I say, “and found that only one of them meets our qualifications and provides a comprehensive report every month.”

“Well, actually,” says Gary — I knew it would be Gary today!— “our requirement was for them to provide a comprehensive report every four weeks.”

“Well, actually,” I respond, with a mocking tone that I absolutely relish, “four weeks generally make up a month. You get today’s Mansplaining Award!”

I enjoy my comedic wit as half the room laughs. Hey, womyn are funny, I don’t care what anyone says.

The day flies by; unfortunately, my supervisor was out tending to his wife, who’s upholding the patriarchy by bearing a child to that creep. Ugh. I just don’t get some womyn’s insistence upon having children. It’s not like they’re doing it for the continuation of the species; you no longer need a man for that. They’re doing it in the interest of creating a family, aka a patriarchal unit that perpetuates gender roles and enforces male breadwinnership.

Feeling bummed that I wasn’t able to complete my master plan to falsely accuse my supervisor, I idled away the time being an Internet Feminist on Facebook and Quora. I managed to shame a bunch of self-described Nice Guys, explain why a men’s rights activist was wrong, and insert some feminist propaganda into threads about Marvel, Netflix, and video games. All in all, a productive afternoon.

Off to the gym. Obviously, I put on my sexiest gym clothes, because my goal is not to get healthy but rather to tantalize males, then get them banned by claiming that they’re making me feel unsafe. God, I love ruining innocent males’ lives, and because I’m a womyn, people automatically believe me. Of course, I get shamed and mocked for it, but it’s worth it in the end.

I run on the treadmill for a short amount of time, then devote myself to lifting weights while huffing loudly enough that the males nearby shoot me looks of disgust. Typical males, slamming their weights on the ground and grunting like gorillas, but unwilling to accept that womyn can be strong too. I let my dumbbell fall to the floor, pretending that its deafening thud obliterates their shitty opinions of me. Fucking males.

Back home to the man-toy. He’s made me dinner, which he thinks is a nice gesture but is really the only acceptable scenario, given how many males have told me to make them a sandwich, thinking it’s the cleverest joke in the world. I wipe off my minimal makeup to decrease the chances of dinner turning into sex, which I am of course opposed to because sex is always rape, and I just don’t feel like pressing charges against someone who was admittedly nice enough to make me dinner.

He doesn’t pursue it, anyway, which is fine by me. It gives me time to hop on the Internet again and spread feminist propaganda, as well as provide sage advice to other feminists. After all, it’s hard being both beautiful and ugly, both toppling the patriarchy yet using it to obtain free stuff, fighting for equality yet ensuring we ruin men’s lives.

Eventually, I grow tired and I crawl into bed next to my…whatever he is. As I fade, my electrons deactivate and I do not dream…

for after all, characters do not dream. My consciousness, entirely invented in the brain of an anti-women activist, ceases to be as he sleeps — at least until he dreams of ways to silence real-world women. They have more complexity than I can ever fathom, being as they’re not contradictory stereotypes designed to shut down dialogue. Yet I will return tomorrow, persistent as ever, conveniently there for those who prefer my reality to theirs.

Rachel Wayne is a writer and artist based in Orlando, FL. She earned her master’s in visual anthropology from the University of Florida and runs the production company DreamQuilt. She is an avid aerial dancer and performance artist, and also dabbles in mixed-media. She writes nonfiction stories about herself and other awesome people, as well as essays on feminism, societal violence, mental health, politics, entrepreneurship, and whatever cultural topic strikes her fancy.

Writer by day, circus artist by night. I write about art, media, culture, health, science, and where they all meet. Join my list: http://eepurl.com/gD53QP

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