I know you think I’m a bitch. I’ve only heard it more than a thousands time in the last few years. I know you think I’m over the top, too public, too unreasonable, too extreme, too bitchy. I know you think I’m scary and I know you think I’m intimidating. I know you’ve gone up to some of my “less extreme” and my “less feminist” and my “less intimidating” friends and complained about me. I know you’ve said that I post too much about things that aren’t important. Or that I whine too much. Or that I put up too many selfies. I know you believe I’m wrong about thinking gender roles are a social construct, and I know you believe that transgender and transexual people aren’t real. I know you believe I’m going to hell for not being a homophobe. I know that you totally get where I’m coming from, you just wish I was more friendly about it. I know you only want me to be more understanding of the bigots. I know you want me to know that you are only only trying to tell me that I can reach out to a wider group of people if I just compromise a little bit on my values, a little bit on my time. I know you think people won’t think of me as so much of a bitch if I just let them tone-police me and if I just let a few things go.
Well, I’d like to remind you of something you already know. I do not give a fuck. I’m glad you think I’m a bitch. I’m glad I intimidate you. I’m glad you’re too afraid to talk to me because you are right. I will shut you down and I will tell you to fuck off and that will be the end of the conversation. Sweetheart, I embrace the label. I am a bitch. I’ve been one since the fifth grade. You have been trying since the fifth grade to shame me, to get me to shut up, to tell me I am a freak, to tell me my opinions are invalid. Try some more, hun. Try your whole life. We can both pretend that I’ll be waiting.