Lora
I blame my environment. Being a biologist, having done my undergrad research with estrogen receptors and phytoestrogens, I am convinced there is no real link between estrogen content, XX chromosomes and intelligence or perception, and if E.O. Wilson could read, you know, journal articles and stuff, he (and his partners in crime) would not make such abysmally stupid pronouncements on gender publicly.
Therefore, my environment has induced Heartless Bitchiness. Hmm, what could be the origin of my attitudes? Could it be that watching my widowed mom attempt feebly to raise me by feminist lights, then cave immediately to the wiles of any drooling Neanderthal driving a Jag, admonishing me in the same sentence not to be a slut but what dress should she wear to impress Don (or Darvin, or Jack, or fill-in-the-blank) induced frustration both with ideology and the fabled Valerie Solanas Daddy's Girls? Could it be education in an all-girls' boarding school, where the headmistress' advice at graduation rehearsal was: "When they go to shake your hand, squeeze HARD, hard enough to break fingers. Men never expect it from a woman, and you can watch them get scared of you" ? Could it be absolute rage at experiencing for myself sexual assault, which inspired me to get involved with college feminist groups? Could it be my religion, which teaches that all things come from Mom Earth, and we create our own realities?
First causes aside, I think this explains it best: My friend Jess and I are sitting in the undergrad biology club room. Jess' research advisor has just had a fit at her because they left the freezer door open for more than two seconds, looking for enzymes. (The male research students could leave it open all day, for all Dr. Terzaghi cares.) One of my research advisors has just received my formal resignation after his last temper tantrum over his inability to speak in a normal tone of voice or have any respect for my class schedule. We figured out a way to get the respect from our advisors we undoubtedly deserved: by carrying vibrators around with us, and at any sign of ignorance on their part, we pull them out of our backpacks and say, "See? We have penises now. You can treat us like the guys." Our advisors, horrified, at least choose never to speak to us again, in any tone of voice. Mine actually ran the other way for two months if he saw me in the hallway.
Yes! I want to read more from Real Life Heartless Bitches
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