A short history of being told how to feel. Part 1
The man who advised me I need men like him to organise effectively. No one can affect change alone.
I don’t suck socialist dick.
The woman who advised me my truth could upset women whose truth was more important. Had I considered an edit?
I don’t kiss feminist cunt.
The woman who wanted a pet to publish, her name on my collar.
The woman calling me a nazi bitch in private and maintaining a feminist front.
You need help.
The woman giving me a public dressing down because my behaviour was hostile.
Keep climbing that greasy ladder my love. I won’t be the cushion at the bottom when you fall on your arse. No hand above will hold you firm.
The many, many women perpetuating the lie that I stalk and am obsessed with posh bints.
I don’t want your pearls duckeh, if I did I’d have ripped them from your neck time ago.
The man telling me I should see people not class because we all come from the Mother Earth.
Just fuck off back your pottery class at St martins. What ever shit you’re smoking is substandard and you probably overpaid for it.
The woman privately telling me if I’d have said I was a “survivor” I would have been better understood.
I’m not Michelle you know? She has a career in gospel. Go survive with her.
Are we done yet? Because part 2 won’t take me long to write.