Cranky Pants

Dear Butch,

I have bad days, I have bad weeks, and I even have had a whole bad month.  I try hard to stay positive (or at least realistic) but sometimes negative people, situations, and energy gets the best of me.  I am human and sometimes I can be a complete asshole.  I know you expect me to be a happy go-lucky-girl twenty-four hours a day.  But I ask you (cue the Carrie Bradshaw monologue tone), why do you expect me so fucking perfect?

I am allowed to have shitty days.  I am allowed to complain about my mother’s semi-cruel opinions of my life.  I am allowed to not be in the mood to talk or suck your cock.  I am allowed to want time alone to be crabby and eat tacos.  These are basic human emotional rights.

I understand that you have an archaic belief that femmes need to always be “on” and cheerleader-ish.  But, it is time you stepped out of the 1950’s sitcom world and into the nitty gritty of reality.  I do my best to be your ideal woman, but occasionally I need some time off from all the smiling and peppiness.

I am not a Stepford wife, I am a femme who has a full range of emotions that should be accepted and embraced.



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