I'm halfway through reading this dope-ass collection of essays by Roxane Gay. I know it's totally gauche to review a book before completing it, but I'm just too stoked to share Bad Feminist with you. Plus fuck the critics and their unwritten code of ethics. (BUT I NEED CRITICAL LOVE AND ACCOLADES, shouts my delicate ego.)
Roxane Gay writes with this sort of composed humility that all of us (should) hope to have maybe one day. But for now while we are all insecure, arrogant assholes just trying to be the most novel version of ourselves, this book is grounding. Plus there has probably never been a better title, ever.
And like all of us, Gay has an elusive story from a time where she turned a profit from her feminine wiles:
"She sits in a little, windowless booth and talks to strings on the phone. She drinks diet soda from a plastic cup, sometimes with vodka, and does crossword puzzles. It is so easy to talk to strangers. She loves her job until she doesn't."
And don't we all know that vodka Diet Coke is my jam when the hours get wee.
I feel like Gay's my friend who supports me in my love for all things Hot Pink, all the while struggling with the constant feminist-policing of our everyday actions. As hard as it may be to believe, my biggest fear is that you're reading my blog and you're like, "This shit is as unfeminist as Carrie Bradshaw."
It's a goddamn relief to know that Gay sometimes feels this way too.
I'm going to read the hell out of the rest of this book tonight at work while I wait for the football game to end.
Go buy it from somewhere that isn't Amazon today. Or tomorrow. But today is probably better because tomorrow is Tittie Tuesday and you'll need two free hands for that.