Women are fascinating creatures, I find the obsession that artists- poets, sculptors, painters, dramatists, cynics, philosophers, psychologists-have with them to be completely understandable. We are a strange lot, especially us "modern and empowered women". Because, sometimes, despite the strongest bloody feminist morals and the most militant feminist ideologies, women end up being just that, women, in every sense of the word in its worst, most stereotyped form.
So I think it would be very safe to say that while I love the vagaries associated with womanhood, and deplore the bullshit (Read as stomach cramps, mood swings, periods, painful childbirth, mood swings, body image issues) associated with being one, the thing I hate most are the basic traits of my type that are sadly unavoidable.
Like pining, and feeling less than special, and being burdened with the expectations of appropriate and inappropriate behaviour and having to cover up for the lack of perception of others. All of that and more.
But what is most insulting to a carefully built up feminist ego is that after years of empowerment, the woman's spirit is still so very much at the mercy of its twin soul's, and still so very easily quashed.
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