Fee, Fie, Foe, Femme

Hags. Landwhales. Monsters-In-Law. Cougars. Psycho Ex-Girlfriends. Queen Bees. Shrews. Bridezillas.

Does imperfection really make us animalistic? Or is it just another excuse to dehumanize? A scapegoat for our apparent cloven-hoofed wickedness?

It’s ironic, I guess. Be too human, and you will be banished as a sub-human she-beast. Maybe I should show them true beastliness. Instead of simply shedding tears, I could tear them to shreds. I could succumb to the succubus of my femininity.

But I will not.

I know that somehow, it’s still my responsibility to prove that I am not a monster. It’s not assumed as a given. I have to be conspicuously, flawlessly human, whether I am faced with a sneering suitor, a domineering dad, or bombastic businessman whose skin tags nearly rupture across his brow at the mere concept of treating others with respect.

I wrote this inside the cover of Black Beauty about five years ago, and while I haven’t read the book itself in since long before then, I think of my own rambled words often:

I don’t like horses because they can’t see behind themselves, and their solution to this evolutionary limitation of their species is to kick backward wildly every time they sense something uncertain or sinister within their peripheral surroundings.

And everyone just accepts this as a part of nature, but when I do, I am apparently a rogue and a menace to society.

I don’t like horses, but I envy them so.

It is not that I necessarily want to kick backward wildly at people. Well, not usually. It’s more that I don’t want to be treated as if I have already done so, when actually, I’ve barely scuffed up a little dirt.

My conviction is crazy. My defiance is difficult. My verity is villainy. My life is a liability. My existence is an Eldritch Horror.

I often think about the jaggedness of my edges. Of my unpolished surfaces and of the unforgiving way I say things even if they make my voice tremble. It seems that the moment I evolve from manic pixie fantasy to regular human being is the same moment that morphs me into a monster. The second I do not click into place, I am pushed out of the fold of humanity.

I guess that’s the thing about edges – I have them. So I might as well use them to sharpen my wits or cut some foolish tongues. I ought to look things in the eye that make other people flinch because so often, I have found myself as one of them.

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