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Tuesday, February 17, 2004

(Hey, that was quick. Yeah, these breaks never last as long as they should)

I was writing down a dream and started ranting. The dream involved my class watching a foreign film with naked women, and that's all you need to know:

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Is there really anything special about femininity, when it seemed to burden these women so? Should I even be a woman, so sacred that I should never show my body or my personality? So desirable that I must be cut off from the larger world so as not to be polluted? So carnal that I must be restrained to prevent me from becoming a prostitute?

Fuck this, man. I’m taking back the original order of women. We’re going backwards, and I just want to shoot whoever declared that women were, as of now, completely useless except for pumping out babies and raping. I want to sleep on that giant bed where all women share a consciousness; but no, I’m a whore, I’m a lesbo, I’m so far removed from the bed that I can’t help to find any sisterhood there. No woman’s an island, but I’m floating way out there, with no company but the palm trees and my own smoke signals that waft into the sky, with nobody around to see them.

I feel like I’m going to explode. My own head is caving in from these thoughts. I want to crawl out from under this rubble and claim my life back. Because, at present, I can’t do anything without that giant boulder on my head reading, "LETICIA! ARE YOU A REAL WOMAN?!" and I imagine all the Keepers of the Clit wagging their fingers at me and telling me all the different ways in which I am exempt from their sisterhood.

Yeah, for a moment a few weeks ago, I coulda sworn I was growing into a real woman. Yes, it was when I read that Naomi Wolf book and realized, holy shit, I’m normal. I’M FUCKING NORMAL. Every woman is carnal, and that’s how the world has worked since the dawn of homo sapiens. And there was this giant cloud reading, "should I do this? should I do that?" right over my head and clouding my consciousness; but I swore to myself that if I just pulled right through the cloud, eventually it would go away, and I would emerge a True Woman, because the thoughts contained in the cloud were ones I should really think about.

But no, instead I went and decided to write my fantasy of the moment on the Internet again, and all of that went away. The cloud was gone, but so was my hope of emerging with the cloud integrated into my personhood as a True Woman. Now I’m just another teenage girl whining about how she can’t find herself.

I'm'a go drown myself in ginger ale.
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