Yo soy una mujer.
I’ve decided to learn Spanish. All I’ve learned so far is to correct you, hombre, if you doubt my gender.
Rest assured, if I’m ever in Spain, you’ll know, “I am a woman.”
With no female friends.
Ever seen that e-card?
“That one friend who only hangs out with guys because she says it’s less drama.”
LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING, HOMBRE.
The streets are flooded with drama. Drama coats the walls, the ceiling and occasionally breaks through a window and dances, butt naked, in your face. Drama has little devil drama babies with sharp teeth and spiked tails, who run around the room singing songs about having 99 problems but a bitch not being one. Foul things, they are.
I have 99 problems, but women ain’t one.
So, why no women?
It all started with a tomboy who preferred barefoot Cops & Robbers to Barbie’s Playhouse. Against the norm, huh?
Ooh, look at me. I’m sooo DIFFERENT.
No, I’m really not.
I cry for sad movies, like when Sharukh Khan falls to his knees because his heart is about to explode or something and pretty girls dance obliviously around him. I like boys, sometimes. I talk about boys, sometimes. I like to cook, clean and take long foamy baths. I watch shows like Nashville and Grey’s Anatomy. I even like Twilight.
Oh, be quiet. They’re just movies.
Sure, my favourite channel is The History Channel and I love DIY. I may also prefer playing League to going to a mall. Yes, I have a toolset and I don’t want to be surrounded by excited shrieking over some man. So what?
Do my interests make me fundamentally different? So much so that I need be labelled anomic?
More importantly, isn’t the anti-norm, in fact, a norm?
It’s noteworthy, that so many people are trying so actively to be different that they, too, have become a collective.
Girly girl, punk, emo? We’re so focused on self-image that we lose sense of who we are in an attempt to be someone else, effectively limiting our own experience.
Trust me, I’d know – I’ve got the heavy metal playlists and photographic evidence of full Goth attire to prove it.
I’ve come to reject the concept of normativity.
If you are truly comfortable in your own, how can you even begin to label yourself?
That said, mark my words, we will also become a collective, and frankly, who gives a crap? Norms shmorms. Live. Be happy. Love your window.
I often say women don’t like me and that I don’t like girls. I’ve been told that it’s my personality and my face. This is convenient, but also not true.
Women, often, are territorial, competitive and jealous among other women. We’re attention-seekers. Every group normally has an queen, and each one wants the throne.
I don’t think this is beneath me. I’m not atypical.
In truth, I prefer the drama-ridden company of males because I don’t want to have to be surrounded by a bunch of women who constantly remind me of all the things I’ll never be.
So, it’s not you. It’s me.
NB: No Spanish people were harmed in the writing of this piece.