Girls Are P*ssies

author: Rachel

You know that thing that happens when you say something bad, aloud? That panic that what you just said will have some sort of real life consequence simply because you had the nerve to unleash a hypothetical onto the ears of unseen atmospheric divinities? And to avoid said consequence, you sacrifice common sense by way of wildly superstitious apology? 

An example:

So how are the kids? Are they out of school yet?

Yes, and if I have to break up one more fight I’m going to kill everybody in the world. And I f*cking hate my husband. I want to take a very long vacation alone.

Hahaha, you’re so funny.

Yeah, haha. (…pregnant silence…) I’m just kidding, though. I love my children unequivocally, and I’m so lucky to spend every second of the day with them, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. I mean, sure my husband wears a wifebeater in public and considers ‘snotrocketing’ a hobby, but at least he’s not an abusive alcoholic, amirite? No, ha, really, I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to them, god forbid, ptoo ptoo, god never let it happen, knock on wood. 

I know you do it. I do it, and I’m an insufferable cynic. And when I say these things I’m talking to my closest friends, each of whom has proven to have at least half a brain, so of course they know I won’t really kill everyone in the world. And I don’t really hate my husband, at least for longer than a week or so. So why do I feel so guilty?

Because I’m a girl. And I’m a p*ssy.

Now let me promise you that those men of ours, in their manly conversations with their manly friends, aren’t censoring. Their wives are bitches and their kids are leeches. And thats OKAY. Because it’s not really true, the world keeps on turning, no apology needed.

Maybe that’s why men skate through life like stoned dinosaurs. Nothing really gets them down for very long because they don’t have the time or patience for guilt.

Women? We’re chained to guilt. I hate it. Sometimes I want to climb to the roof, proclaim my desire for temporary nonparenthood, eat a big mac and get on with my day.

Ptoo ptoo, god forbid.