Whiskey. I get to drink whiskey and I don’t give a shit if it ‘looks awesome’ or ‘is so tough’ because it’s not, it’s just delicious and I will drink too much of it and I will burp in your face and then order a taco. Screw you, that’s what I do.
I don’t have to wear heels, but I can if I want to. Heels make me look taller. If I feel like tricking people into thinking I look taller by wearing tiny pencils on the bottoms of my shoes, so be it. For the most part, I have flat feet and I trip everywhere and I can wear some weird-ass ankle sandals and so be it. But sometimes I wear heels if I want to sound like a tap-dancer when I walk.
Girls don’t really ever have to wear pants if they don’t want to. Skirt? Sure. Leggings? Fuck it. Most of the time, I can go months and years without wearing pants and I don’t give a crap-o who knows it. I haven’t worn pants since 1994. I’m not wearing pants now. I’m wearing shorts, which are like cut off pants who didn’t go to a 4-year college, they went to a community and still made a fucking name for themselves without the extra buttload of loans.
I can ask a guy out. I can just go up to a guy and say ‘yo, you wanna eat a slice of pizza and then kind of go to a smoky bar where I play Psycho Killer on the jukebox and then we make out? Because I don’t need to wait for you to ask me. As you can see, I’m doing that asking now.’ Sure, maybe I don’t ALWAYS ( or ever) go up to a guy and do that, but you can always text the girl or guy you like and that’s kind of the passive-aggressive way way out of things. And a lady is entitled to take the easy way out, if she so chooses.
I get to be all independent and shit. Focus on a career? Why, I have these ovaries that are exploding inside me! I have to pop babies out of them! Oh, wait, I’m 22. I can tell my ovaries to shut the fuck up and stop annoying me while I become a multi-millionaire or become a business person or do whatever else the hell I want. And then I can lead from there.
When I get my period, I bleed and it sucks! Nope, it sort of doesn’t. It doesn’t because I can roll around and eat all the nachos and all the food things and whine and bitch and watch movies and most people are SO SCARED TO FIGHT ME. Well, sometimes it hurts. But that’s just a side effect from all the pasta I’m eating.
I get to put all this colorful makeup shit on my face, kind of like war paint, and it looks awesome. I go out on a Friday night and I’m basically like Braveheart. Braveheart wore makeup, right?
I can shave my legs and they feel like two Zen stones that you find in the Zen garden where you take a tiny rake to all the sand. Or I can not shave them and see how crazy hairy my legs can get. Am I Bigfoot? No, I’m not nearly as tall, though I do have the tendency to run through the woods naked.
If I want to wear ruffly shit and some crazy ass necklaces, I can. Well, you can do that as a boy, too, but you’d look a little less like you were in a period piece. Same goes for dresses! I like looking like a flowy piece of shit sometimes, at least when I’m going to a barbecue.
I get to spray all this freesia scented perfume on me in truckloads, and when guys do that they kind of smell like The Jersey shore. And then I get to smell bad sometimes, because sometimes I don’t want bugs to eat me alive and get all the ‘amber romance’ in my mouth when I spray it. Although my deodorant gets to smell like BABY POWDER!
I don’t really care if you’re looking at my boobs, but I get to wear a Victoria’s Secret sack for said boobs and when I run they bob up and down, like two friends who are very excited to see me.
Nail polish is nice! I love seeing the progress of how much I have bitten my nails today because of how much polish has chipped off at the end of the day.
Ladiezzzz night! Let’s all put a bunch of hairspray shit in our hair and try to hit on people but mostly instead just find an excuse to eat something unhealthy late nights and wait on line in the bathroom and talk about all the sex we are not having or are having.
My crotch shoots fireworks! No, I’m kidding. It doesn’t, but at least I don’t have my genitals on the outside. That sounds a little bit daunting, especially because sometimes those things have a life of their own.
I can truly enjoy not relating to Cathy Comics or The Bachelorette.
I get to be extra proud of women like Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, and my mama tearing it the hell up.
I get to fantasize about my wedding, or not give a shit about it at all. Sometimes I think a soulmate would be really romantic, most of the time I think that movies and my best friends and Gruyere are said soulmates. Who cares? I’m pretty intent on owning my own dog, so fuck it.
I can eat a whole lot of food, and I don’t give a crap who knows it. Sure, I might be expected to ‘wear a bra on the beach’ but mostly I don’t give a hoot about that because sand between my toes feels like little ticks all over my skin.
Guys think I’m so weak? Well what if I punch you in the face, or you know, get a better job than you. That’ll show you.
Totally allowed to vote SO I DO! Thanks Susan B Anthony, for giving us that shit and also for bringing back the bun hairstyle.
If I wanna carry a baby in my tummy? I can. If I don’t want to, I don’t gotta. And if I wanna cry at some fucking sappy movie I can do that too. If I wanna enjoy the romantic comedy, or make fun of it, that’s my business. I don’t have to own a ruffly apron or know how to bake cookies unless if I’m under the influence and want to. And if I want to tattoo Rosie the Riveter on my ass, I’ll so do so. Tattoos last forever though, y’all.
I curse a lot. That’s not so much ‘being a girl’ as ‘being an awesome human with a limited way of expressing herself’ but that’s fine, too.
I want to do ‘girly’ stuff like Google celebrities and tweeze my eyebrows but I read lots of books and stuff and all of these things I take pleasure in.
Shopppppppppping is both an activity I love and despise. This has nothing to do with being a girl, except sometimes I can stare a lot at a rack of bracelets without getting very bored.
I understand the movie Mean Girls a lot, and that is awesome, because high school sort of sucked for a lot of us. Except now I can’t wear a denim pleated skirt, which is something I imagine I have to really live with.
I can shake my booty at a bar and give you my number, but most likely I PROBABLY WON’T.
Well, I mean, I can buy face masks and Lean Cuisines and pints and pints of ice cream or chamomile tea and just be like ‘so what, I’m wearing a cool pleather jacket I’m one icy and progressive bitch.’
Nobody needs to buy me flowers. They just need to know I won’t put up with any kind of nonsense, that I can beat them at Jeopardy, and that holding doors is nice, but holding my own is better.
Other girls are the best. Girls who stand their ground. Girls who wear red lipstick. Girls who don’t. Girls who inspire me to want to do better and hang out and talk about how our hair looks good in this conditioner and how we might take over the world someday. I get to be very, very proud of the progress we’ve made. Very Beyonce of me. I also get to smugly dance to Beyonce a lot.
I can do what I want, and fuck you if you don’t like it. Be your own definition of what a girl is, I don’t give a honk. I’m sorry for being aggressive! Oh wait, no I’m not.
Because there’s nothing she can touch that won’t be changed
by the pulp of her heartbeat—
I can’t help but feel a quiver in my ribcage when the room is silent.
This patchwork quilt is more grey near the top
where my face is and I wonder what that makes me.
As soon as she lit her cigarette
I smelled it three rooms away and inhaled deep that spice
she huffs out the window when he makes her mad.
It’s something for your mouth to do.
Her body is a coil, tense with youth and love
and wit and anger and she can burn like magnesium
a blinding whiteness that is difficult to extinguish even if you try.
She thought the alarm chirp was a bird
— a certain Manhattan species—
and she lowered her eyes when I laughed at her, saying bird? bird?
One time she thought she saw some murderers from her window
loading up a body into an unmarked van late at night
but it turned out not to be.
From her window she can also see Jersey
and when the power all went out over there
it was like the sky was blinking and
you would never know anything had ever existed beyond the water.
I feel myself loving her, the way a sister does
mood lifting almost unconsciously
when she enters the room.
I sit here with the lights off in the afternoon
and it’s only when she comes home that I realize I’m sitting in the dark.