The End of Men

by Christina Sweeney-Baird

Be wary of that little voice that tries to twist one scary thing into a spiral of despair.

I’m being gaslit by the entire Scottish medical establishment.

“How are you coping with grief?” She laughs, briefly. “I’m not,” and the screen goes black.

There’s a reason she’s a surgeon and I’m not. Sociopaths, the lot of them.

He spends every day outside of the house in bars. He is reckless. He touches people, accepts drinks, takes public transportation.

We have seen men wage war since the dawn of time. Nobody wins the wars men fight.

I’d quite like to reduce my monkey kill count. They’re a nightmare to dispose of.

It’s probably not much fun working for me, I’m self-aware enough to know that.

I’ve never prioritized diversity over ability. I’ve always had a simple policy. The best female applicant gets the job.

These people in their white coats and their glasses with their PhDs and their amazing brains have saved the world and I want to wring their necks I’m so angry.

“You’re making it sound stupid. It was a dream of mine for a long time.” “To do what, look at some sheep on a hill?”

“You’re making me sound like an awful person,” he says petulantly. “Like I skipped off into the sunset without a second thought.” How did I ever love this man? He’s a complete twat.

It must be bad for her to put down her book.