The Bad Feminist

The bad feminist’s friend says she’s a bad feminist. The bad feminist thinks she might be a bad feminist. The bad feminist likes Game of Thrones. American Psycho is one of her favorite movies, and she hates Mean Girls. There was a time when she despised the color pink, and she still wears pads instead of tampons. She has J.K. Rowling blocked on Twitter. She masturbates to hardcore lesbian porn.

Nothing’s on television, so the bad feminist scrawls BAD FEMINIST on her mirror with cherry-red lipstick. She hates cherries, hates lipstick, and is ambivalent about mirrors. The mirror occasionally pulses with hatred. More often it knights her with a scepter of ambivalence.

It’s not enough, so the bad feminist scrawls PRETTY GODDAMN BAD FEMINIST on her mirror with cherries, squeezing until juice bursts out. The bad feminist hates being a girl. The bad feminist is a caricature of femininity. The bad feminist doesn’t keep up with the times. The bad feminist likes her face as-is, likes her breadrolls doughy. The bad feminist is full to bursting with anger and hatred— boom! boom! cherry bomb! The bad feminist wants very very badly to be a good feminist. All the while the cherry skins pile up in the sink. All the while the cherry juice just keeps dripping, dripping, down down down.

The bad feminist still doesn’t have a boyfriend, so she scrawls WORST FEMINIST EVER on her mirror using cherry-flavored lip balm. She writes it in swooping cursive. She hates cursive, hates cherries, loves picking at her chapped lips. The lip balm dries whitepink, leaves no legible letters on the mirror; just the whitepink streaks like bacteria, like a slug, like a whitepink slug leaving a trail of cherry-flavored slime wherever it goes, and also she’s the slug, the ugly slug is actually unequivocally nonmetaphorically her.

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