My dash is reminding me of my dream last night. Where a guy was running around pulling down the shirts of all the women he could and then mocking them for having breasts. Most of them cried in shame and very few did anything more than just yell at him about it. Strangely, they all saw him coming and did not try to protect themselves. They each thought he would pass them by because he would get bored of it eventually, right?
When he saw me, he grinned and made a beeline straight for me. I ducked his reaching hand, and introduced his face to my fist with punctuality. He fell backwards with a bleeding and broken nose.
Then the crying started.
This grown ass man (with classic middle aged male pattern baldness), was kicking and screaming like an insulted toddler. He demanded I surrender ownership of my “boobs” to him. He had a right to them, he shrieked. I was being mean, and feminist, and all the misandry adjectives.
He demanded I come to him, pick him up, sooth his feelings, and let him grope me at once as was his right and due by virtue of his sex.
I walked over to him and asked him if he knew what misandry was.
He said misandry was anything that hurts men.
So I kicked him in the nuts as hard as I could, then told him “That’s not misandry, that’s assault.”, and started to walk away as he choked on the howls of pain shuddering in his throat.
A woman got in my face. Her shirt had been ripped by him earlier, and she was covering herself with a bright pink (Breast cancer awareness pink, at that!) shawl. How dare I be disrespectful to him? He was only playing a game. No one got hurt. Boys will be boys. It is my responsibility to keep myself out of the public if I wasn’t going to behave. How dare I deny a man what is his to claim by right of gender!
I realized then I was dreaming, and did a quick check to verify. Yup. Dreaming. I laughed and turned to walk away from her as well.
She grabbed my arm.
She grabbed my arm.
“It’s because of sluts like you that we women can’t rise to our true nature. Too busy trying to be men and now everything is confused!”
Bitch, what part of my psyche did you crawl out of? I knew I wouldn’t get an answer from her, so I did what was logical in the dream.
I cold punched her in the face, too.
“Stockholm syndrome is a bitch, isn’t it. If you sympathize with those that would [oppress] me and treat me as they would to gain their favor, I will treat you as I would treat them. You get no points for being a woman. Master. Overseer. Both would break a rod on my back, regardless of how many attributes I share with them. You are not a better woman than I for flying womanly flags.”
I turned and left the dream without any further delay.
I woke up and decided that perhaps I had overindulged on fish tacos earlier in the day after all, and that maybe there is such thing as eating too much raw cabbage in one meal.
Maybe Shakespeare had a thing about undigested lettuce after all.