(Or the Confessions of an Ex Feminist-Malarkist - that's a person who's
one-fourth feminist, three-fourths malarkey)
was Easter Sunday morning.
I woke up with an ugly hangover
and an even uglier man.
I lived in an apartment in New York City
that had seen more cockroaches than daylight.
I worked for a company that surveyed people
about the types of toilet bowl cleaners they preferred.
I had one friend
who called once a week
to see if my lungs were still moving in and out.
I had just enough money to send the man home.
"It is time for the Resurrection," I said.
I called upon the angel in myself.
"You are an asshole," she said.
"You're a lazy self-indulgent egomaniac
who abuses herself and other people.
You're not a 'radical feminist' at all.
You're a selfish spoiled brat
who's outraged because you have to work
for what you want and life isn't easy.
You've used a political position
to justify hatred and destruction.
You have contributed nothing to the world."
I shut up.
I quit drinking.
My career as a "radical feminist" had ended.
My life as a woman had begun.