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“Well, it’s very complicated, Mary.” She puts on a haughty air. “Basically, I work for five minutes, and then I take a thirty-minute break so I don’t kill myself.”
“Yeah, electroshock didn’t cure you, but maybe some ice cream woulda. Get real, Mary.” “That’s my plan. For the first time in my life. Really real. I’ve moved into the Cross House, Aunt Nadine. You’d never believe everything that’s happened to me. I’m special.” “I’ve been saying you were special since day one, Mary. A real Short Bus Extraordinaire.”
They will always try to condense our complexities into something simple and dismissible, because that’s what being a woman is, being too much for definitions and being defined anyway,
like being naked. I like this feeling of freedom. I even like how I looked in the mirror as I moved about the room. I might never put clothes on again. This body has survived so much trauma and bloodletting—more than any man’s could have. It deserves to be celebrated.
some kinds of women are only invisible until somebody needs to be blamed.
