I’ve tried really hard to avoid writing about this, but I’m apparently not the king of self control I make myself out to be. Obviously, standard stupidity disclaimers apply, IAJAG*.
I spent some time in the mall today, and with the amazing pastel and floral spring line up for little girls, I just stood there staring wishing I was ten again. And female.
(That’s more than you needed to know. Moving along with what I really wanted to talk about.)
I’m scared. Well, I’ve been angry for a chunk of my life, but now that’s morphed to cold fear. I regard being handed a Y-chromosome (or whatever else it is, biologically) and consequently being born a human male as one of the greatest injustices in the history of the universe. Somewhere in the league of… people having the ability to kill each other arbitrarily. Yes, this is a huge deal.
I could branch of into this, “how much cooler it is to be a female” sermon, but I will reserve that for a weaker moment. For now, I will take a small detour into male suckiness, and get to the point. Guys are, to put it mildly, not very bright. We serve little purpose, and don’t contribute a great deal toward the overall progress of anything. We usually aren’t clean, organized, thoughtful or sensitive. We can be mean, rude, and our humour can be very, very crude. So crude you need to be told it was a joke and that we were offended you didn’t even giggle.
By now you’ve all heard all the jokes everywhere. “Now all women need is a device to open pickle jars, we’re doomed”. Or, “Now all they need is a spider crushing device, we’re doomed”.
And me? I wasn’t ever strong enough to be asked to open a jar. When there was a mouse or some such around, I’d be the first to jump up and scream like a three year old (you know, when she gets to see Justin Timberlake? or whoever else the youngins worship these days) on the coffee table. I wasn’t of too much use in any of those departments, unless my screams scared the little mouse away.
However, I could always take solace in the little things I assumed couldn’t change. I mean, she had to have me around for some stuff. She just had to. Me and my kind couldn’t be discarded while life as a whole goes on happier than it’s ever been. Or could it?
We now have the genius scientists coming up with baby mice with two mommies. No, not one dad and the woman realising she’s lesbian and running of with another hot woman style two mothers. Just the two mothers, and the wonders (or horror, if you’re looking at it from where I am) of parthenogenesis.
Which reminds me, imminent redundancy.