Too Much Foucault, Not Enough Bra Burning

I'm fucking tired of discussing what I have or haven't got in my pants. I want to talk about the fucking haves and the have nots; I want to talk about a generation lost between the privilege and the weight of the knowledge of it. I'm tired of having to make a stand on gender, tired of being a little girl, a big man, tired of the boxes and the rage. My fists are what I'm fighting with, lets talk about them. What am I fighting for? Did I block that uppercut? Did I miss it? Is that why I'm reeling? Lets talk about my skills without having to box in my nuts or qualify my tits.

I don't work on cars because they make my dick hard. I don't cook to please my man. I didn't unclog the drain so that I could rescue you from distress. I don't clean so that I can be a good wife. I didn't wear a dirty t-shirt to make an antisocial political statement.

I work on my car because I can't afford a better mechanic. I cook because I'm dying of hunger. I cleared the drain so that I could take a shit without being up to my ankles in it. I clean because I can't hack it with the filth. My shirt is dirty because I'm up to my elbows in it.

I'm sorry you can't relate to me as a woman, I'm not that kind of girl. I'm sorry I don't pass as a man, I'm not that kind of boy. I'm not your possession, not your provider, not a facade to chip away at.