I am uncomfortable with the thought that there may be exist feminists more radical (though I prefer "incendiary") than myself, so I'm careful to keep a simianishly tight toe-grip on the furthest fringe at all times, right. And yet. Breaking up pigeon mating rituals, grunting "Leave her alone, see how she's walking away from your stupid puffy chest?" . . . I suppose even the most flawless, indeed righteous topiary still needs to be well-acquainted with the pruning shears, yes?

But vivid excesses and profound logical lapses are to be expected in my case. Maintaining such a cruelly keen and spit-honed edge on my manhatred while being so raveningly heterosexual that Paul Cadmus drawings give me actual clitoral boners when skimmed in bookstores - it creates structural weakness in the mind's framework, i.e. imbalances.



"Cadmus? Hey, hold on!," the reader protests. "Doesn't this make you not a 'raveningly heterosexual woman' but a 'weird girlfag with no erotic home in the world'?" Well yeah but this is a blog not a book-length treatise on my gender orientation pain, so keep your astute and penetrating insights quiet.