Being a Feminist & a Total Fucking Cliche at the Same. Damn. Time.

I’ve never shied away from voicing my stance on Feminism. One of my many bug-a-boos about being a woman is the box that we’re supposed to fit into in order to be “feminine”. I don’t appreciate being told who I am supposed to be or how I am supposed to act. I quite enjoy being different and flawed and fun.

However, just for funzies (yes, that is on purpose), here is a list of all the ways I am a total fucking cliche:

  1. When I get my period I want all the chocolate, Chinese food, and cuddly stuff all at once. I want to weep and scream and laugh and punch something.
  2. I fucking like pumpkin spice stuff, OK??!?!
  3. I own approximately 1 million romantic comedy DVDs and watch them on a rotation.
  4. I sneeze like a god-damned fairy princess. It’s cute as shit.
  5. Cleaning is like therapy for me. Messes are the devil and you best use a damn coaster.
  6. I have a yoga mat, dumbbells, and an elliptical all in the corner gathering cobwebs.
  7. If I see something tiny and cute, I might squeal.
  8. Weddings make me sob like Dawson when Joey chose Pacey.
  9. I would straight up run through a group of toddlers, step on them, shove them to the ground, elbow them in the nose to get to Joseph Gordon-Levitt if I saw him in the street.
  10. My apartment looks seance-ready with all the scented candles I have burning all at once on a daily basis.
  11. I have been known to wear a sexy halloween costume. Cat ears and tiny dress? Check.
  12. I would rather eat fire than make the first move if I’m interested in a guy.
  14. I might have saved that movie ticket stub from 7 years ago when we saw Step Brothers because I’m sentimental as shit.
  15. If a movie has a musical and/or dance sequence, I fucking own it.
  16. It takes me 13 years to pick out a body wash because I literally have to smell ALL OF THEM.
  17. Wine is like a son to me.

Now, just to save face a little bit, here are some ways that I’m not a total fucking cliche:

  1. I burp so damn loud my dog flinches.
  3. “Relaxing” in a bath or hot tub makes me want to vomit.
  4. My favorite things to do are: reading, writing, watching baseball, doing crosswords, eating, drinking beer.
  5. My least favorite things to do are: shopping, painting my nails, doing my hair, wearing dresses, cooking, exercising or moving my body around in general.
  6. I have 1 bathing suit because I’m really freaking practical.
  7. I received the highest A.C.T. (The Midwest’s “S.A.T.”) score in my entire grade in high school.
  8. I learned to read/write/add/subtract when I was 4 years old.
  9. I won my 7th grade spelling bee.
  10. I live alone and prefer it.
  11. Finally, I drink and curse like a fucking WOMAN.

So, cheers to all those Feminists out there that might want to be a cliche once in awhile. Bravo!


How Having Large Breasts Made Me a Feminist

I grew up like most other little girls, waiting, biding my time until I would have real breasts like the women I grew up around. I remember the first time I noticed a change in myself. I had developed little “buds” and I would just stare at myself in the mirror. I was one happy child.

What I didn’t expect was how quickly I would develop into the 36DD size that I am now. My body decided to make all my dreams come true and bless me with breasts of an adult woman at the age of 14.

The first time my classmates really noticed that I had changed came after a presentation on an invention I had come up with to my 7th grade science class. I went to a very small school in a very small town in Illinois. There were about 60 students in my grade. We had one science teacher for the whole middle school and he always videotaped our presentations and showed them to all his other classes. Now, my presentation went off without any problems. What happened when the video was shown to my class along with the other classes is another story. During my presentation, the teacher got distracted while behind the camera (I place none of the blame on the teacher, he was great), the angle of the camera changed, my face got cut off and the sole focus of the camera was on my chest. There was a good 20 seconds of just my chest before the teacher righted the camera again.

Not only was this video shown to my class while I was in it, but to all the other science classes that day (i.e. all the other students in my grade). My chest was all that anyone was talking about. The guys were being exactly how you would expect middle school boys to be–lots of open leers at my chest and inappropriate gestures. The girls were supportive, some made jokes, but none were mean which was a blessing.

After that, there was no hiding that I was developing. I became very closed off and shy. I never knew if a guy was actually interested in me or if he just wanted to see/touch my boobs and tell his friends and high-five. Grown men were looking at me different and hitting on me. I guess people don’t realize or care that just because a girl has a large chest does not make her a sexually mature adult. There was this one man that was dating one of my adult relatives that I would see once a year at family Christmas or some other family event that would only talk to my chest. He always asked how old I was, when I was starting college, etc. I would politely remind him (every year) that I was only 14, 15, 16, etc. He would then go on and on about how he could not believe I was so young, I sure didn’t look young. The creepy feeling that I got from this guy was so palpable I would find an excuse (any excuse) to extract myself from the conversation and hide from him for the rest of the night. That feeling has helped me get out of many similar situations with many similar men.

Once I got into high school, everyone wondered why I didn’t date anyone. I would always get asked if I was gay by my friends’ parents. Not really by my friends, because they knew me. I was certain that other people wondered the same thing, but it didn’t really bother me. I was still going to school with those same 60 people. We all knew everything about each other. Everyone was so close that you could not do anything without it getting around the entire school in what seemed like seconds. So, I knew if I were to engage in any kind of physical act with anyone at my school, everyone would know about it. The guys were dying to know about my breasts. No one had seen them, I was one of the last people to still be a virgin. I wanted to date and I wanted to do everything my friends were doing, but I was so sure that I would be the talk of the school the next day that I just couldn’t do it. I remained single until after high school.

What people don’t tell you (and what you will not understand) when you are a child, is how having large breasts turns you into a sexual object to men whether you want to be one or not. Just wearing a tank top on a hot day was something that I couldn’t do without looks from men and judgement from women. I was told I looked “slutty”. I was a teenager, not wanting attention, just wanting to be normal. I couldn’t wear clothes that my friends wore, because I had cleavage in everything. I started only wearing T-shirts and downplayed my looks to ward off advancements from men and judgements from others. Everyone talked about my boobs, but I couldn’t talk about them without being told I was trying to get attention. Sports bras were my best friends. If you ever saw me in a tank top, you better believe there was a sports bra on underneath.

Most women can relate to the injustice of being judged on a physical feature rather than intellect, achievements, or personality and work daily to show what is underneath the surface. All these events and just the day-to-day of carrying around this inferred sexuality that I did not want or identify with, turned me into the feminist that I am now. I feel like I would have gotten there eventually no matter what my circumstance, but the constant objectification from such a young age really made it sink in. A revolution was going on inside of me. I was not going to allow anyone to make me feel like I was less than what I felt I was worth. I have always had a voice and I don’t apologize for using it or expressing myself. There is validity to what I say and do, I am not for any person’s viewing pleasure.

I was not a slut for wearing a tank top, I didn’t ask for what was given to me and I wasn’t looking for attention. It took me a long time to get comfortable with the looks I received while wearing a tank top or low-cut top. I was sick of wearing a T-shirt or hooded sweatshirt on every occasion, even to parties and events. I was over all of it. I stopped being afraid and I found a self-confidence I always knew was there somewhere. I still don’t date easily. Being compared to a sex doll really makes you vet out the men trying to come into your life. I usually won’t date someone until I’ve known them a while and can really tell they like me for my personality. Despite the dating obstacle, I am a much happier person than I used to be since I accepted my body type and stopped allowing it dictate my life. The sports bras are strictly for sports now.


I know we’re not supposed to judge a book by it’s cover…. BUT this one makes me want to throw this book in the garbage so hard it explodes into flames and NO ONE puts them out.

Sure, just continue to quell your authority so, God forbid, you don’t ruffle any feathers!

This was written by not one, but two women and had to go through so many hands to get published. Really? REALLY?? I’m seriously glad I saw this at a thrift store for forty cents.


P.S. I’m positive the Samantha Bee autobiography that I bought will get me through this.