I’ve so had it with all this oppressive sexist bullshit. It is never ending. The men whose sole mission in life is to rule the world from the high end of every woman’s uterus, the criminals who steal girls to taunt the world so everyone from the First Lady on down holds up a stupid hashtag sign as if the Boko Haram gives a flying fuck about hashtags or public opinion, the editor of the New York Times getting canned because she had a beef about salary equity are all just more junk and debris in a crammed, filthy river that has been running through civilization from the beginning of fucking time.

And we are so used to all of this that we can’t fire up the juice to get mad anymore. And by mad, I mean red rage, unreasonable rage, indescribable rage, indignation, resentment, and fury.

Like frogs in simmering water, all of us with extraordinary hopes of true gender equality in the sixties and seventies have just let ourselves be poached into timid, limp versions of our former kickass selves. Taking offense at sexism, I mean taking serious offense, like ‘what the fuck’ offense, is just so not done anymore. Heaven forbid, a woman should ever call out a colleague for sexism for she then would have to admit she is a feminist. People would stare and point as if a rare, blind sea creature never before seen by humankind suddenly emerged from the ocean. National Geographic would come take pictures. Look at the feminist we found! We’ve heard that there used to be more but now they’re nearly extinct.

I yearn to be rude again, insistent and out of control.

Yesterday, I attended a community luncheon with a big shot panel discussion about human services. All of the seven panelists were men. It was a wingtip festival. I complained to the organizer. Why were there no women on the panel? In the audience, there were women advocates and experts and professors galore. “I tried,” he said. Oh, I thought, I’m sorry, excuse me. I didn’t realize you had tried. That makes all the difference.

Women are half the population practically everywhere in the world. Where’s our half? I want to see our half, go there in my car, spread a blanket and have a picnic on our half. And I want to go there anytime I please, not just when the fellas decide it would be okay to let me in. I want to maybe put up a fence and keep the other half out, I want to plow or not, build a city or keep a meadow, mine for gold or take a nap. I want to do what I want on our half.

I dream.

And so it goes, not the exception, but the rule. We didn’t do much except to make standing up for ourselves an embarrassing exercise that few of us claim. We were feminists but that was then. That’s all done now.