You know what I’m like with “the ladies.” I’m all “equality” this and “humanity” that and “stop with the raping, for God’s sake, stop with all the—sometimes literal—motherfucking raping” the other.
It’s amazing to me that it’s still considered a notable, commendable trait—“Oh, she’s a well-known feminist”—in a woman, or a girl, or a man, or a boy. That that is the unusual thing. Really, it should be the reverse. Rather than what seems like a minority having to spend time, energy, brain, and heart explaining why they’re “into” equality, the majority should be explaining why they’re not. You put the time into explaining why—in a world where every concept of justice, wisdom, progress, and rightness is a human invention—we still prefer the human concept of “some people being inferior to others” over “this is a vast, inky, cold, empty universe, and in it, we are the only humans that exist, all sharing a tiny milky green/blue world, and faced with a multitude of problems and an infinite capacity for joy, and should therefore try and stick together and accord each other some respect.”
When I wrote How to Be a Woman, I thought—given that it was 320 pages—that I’d kind of done all the feminism. As the years went by, however, feminism was a topic I returned to time and time again in my columns. I am still trying to work out how to be a woman. I think we all are. There’s still a lot of ass-hattery out there. Thankfully, however, there are also a lot of women. I reckon, if we all got together in one particularly large bar, we could probably sort it all out before the Sambuca shots started—allowing breaks to nip outside, for fags.