Gosh golly gee no, asshat. I do not know what a memoir is. The University employs me to help people better their writing because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing or anything about writing or literature!
And then there was the time I was complaining on facebook about a certain mansplainin’ rape apologizing racist loudmouthed asspanda. And a man then helpfully mansplained to me why I should just walk away serene in my evolved state and perform femininity better (read in a way that makes said man more comfortable/less scared).
Because, did you know, dames, we can just fucking opt out of the patriarchy by like, being better than it? Yeah, I’m better than existing in public. I will now be serene in my evolved state. Or deep in the outback. Or in Antarctica. Don’t the penguins have gender equality?
I think they do. That is the saddest part of this day. The fucking penguins have gender equality. My husband is out of town, the ankle that I messed up last week is still messed up, stupid douche-canoes feel free to float in, winkingly ask what they have to do to get help with their paper, sit down and inform me they might stink with hawt manliness because they like, just went running, and then ask my distinguished lady colleague if she knows what a fucking memoir is.
And the fucking penguins have already achieved the feminist dream.