I’ve been living a lie.
The past two years of my life, I’ve been proudly advocating for gender equality. I claimed that I believed in the equality of the sexes and in advocating for the rights of both genders. I’m sorry, readers, but I’ve been wrong this whole time. I’ve been writing lies and nonsense for months, and for that I apologize. My only path toward redemption is to reveal the truth.
I’m a feminist.
I don’t know if you’ve heard of the term, but there’s a lot of misconceptions about it. What is this “feminism?” Well, Google defines it as “the advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.” Now, I don’t always call Google a two-faced liar, but there you have it. Feminism isn’t about the equality of the sexes. Feminism is about being better than men, rising to power and having women dominate the world while men grovel at our feet.
My feminism manifests itself in a variety of ways. When I wake up every morning, I don’t go to the kitchen to drink a glass of water. Instead, I pour myself my daily glass of men’s tears. The saltiness of their sadness and victimization feeds my soul. And sometimes, for a treat, I add a little bit of hot sauce to the glass just to remind myself of the burning hell we plan on sending all men to.
When I get dressed, all I put on is my gold-plated pantsuit. I’ve already burned all of my bras and thrown out my dresses and skirts, and my pantsuits are all I have left. Like our one true Goddess, the holy Hillary Clinton says, “It’s not over until the lady in the pantsuit says it is.” We feminists try to emulate that as much as possible.
I don’t go to school anymore. There’s too many men in positions of power, and whenever I scream at these “teachers” about the patriarchy they pretend to not notice. So, I dropped out. Who needs a high school diploma to take over the planet? Women are better than education, that’s for sure.
In my free time, I burn a lot of things. Male-written books, more bras and voodoo dolls of every man who has ever looked at me. I don’t think, in my life, I have ever felt more victimized than the few times a man has dared set his eyes upon my empowered physique. I mean, who do they think they are, objectifying me like that? I’m not an object, I’m a subject. I’m not a piece of meat. I am the whole cow. And cows are holy in India, you know?
As a feminist, I’ve had a lot of funny things happen to me. One time, I had a guy come up to me and say he was a feminist. What? My first reaction, after spitting in his face, was to laugh so hard that my five copies of “Lean In” fell out of my pantsuit breast pockets. Men can’t be feminists! That’s like saying a tomato is a fruit. Men probably haven’t ever eaten ketchup; it reminds them too much of the bloodshed to come when we annihilate their entire gender.
Another time, I had someone tell me that feminism actually is about gender equality. So I did the only reasonable thing I could think of and called over my lesbian feminist harem to take care of him. As we threw him on a pyre made up of the media’s unrealistic beauty expectations (it was a giant stack of Maxims and Playboys), he shed a single tear.
The tear rolled down his disgusting cheek, and when it dropped from his trash-face I caught it in my fist. I savored the salty burn on my skin. We lit the pyre, and as the flames began licking the sidewalk, I raised my tear-stained fist to the sky. This male sacrifice would show everyone what we feminists are capable of. Everyone would know that women can, and will, dominate the world.