You see her and you instantly know that if you were a man you’d wished she would be the woman who’d give birth to your children. But you are not a man. You are a woman. A heterosexual woman who now only feels shorter, wider, with the worst of skins and a waste-of-time job. A freak basically.
She moves with grace and has a laughter like a choir of seventy-five angels and Lara Fabian. She is very good at extreme sports (all of them!) and origami making, and her vagina has never had an infection. She has slept with all of the guys you’ve only masturbated to, including Kevin Spacey, and they are still good friends. She is a vegan but also eats pork ribs and veal, and somehow gets away with it. She keeps an emergency stash of junk food in her Burberry purse just in case she incidentally gets too high.
You never get too high. In fact, you never get high at all, and not only because you’re short. You keep it low – low-budget, low-cost planes, low self-esteem, low-carb diet, low libido and low blood pressure. You are ambitious, though, so you might try to be the lowest of the low. Promiscuous and sleazy. A slut with leaning to zero sex life, but occasional yeast infections, who struggles with body-image issues and hates her mediocracy and lack of career.
Standing next to that inhuman female creature obviously makes you realise how much of a piece of shit you are. Unfortunately, she sits on the top left corner of your brain like a blinking low-battery icon, and you can do close to nothing to make her go away. And she doesn’t even exist in the real world.
And as you’ve reached so far reading all of this, you would be expecting a moral of the story. And here it is – there is no moral of the story. This is yet another construct that you were dragged to live in – that things happen for a reason and there should always be something to take away with you when the story ends. But there isn’t. So – open up a beer, put on your new shoes or hijab, and enjoy the rest of the ride. Or don’t. Whatever – no one really cares.