What is it to take care of yourself? What are we taking care of? A million bedrooms with hands softly lulling our divine cocks and cunts, without telling anyone, a million ships come alone out on the calmest seas. So are we loving ourselves now? Are we mothering ourselves?

Statistics and newspapers tell me I am unhappy and dying, that I need man and child to fulfill me, that I'm more likely to get breast cancer. And it's biology, it's my own fault, it's divine punishment of the unruly. It's fearfull out here on the calmest seas, we who grew up singing Merry Christmas! War is over. Our mothers softly humming: We're at the edge of history

But I keep growing older, eight years since 25 now, and all that ages now is the body, I wonder why, I think to myself one of these days everything I write begins with the question, WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?

You say I'm free now, that battle is over, and feminism is over