The Downside of Being a Woman

We're made to stand pain in any form: nail breakage, three-inch heels, fashion criticisms, sleazy lying bastards, beauty standards, double standards, domestic abuse, domestic chores, menstrual cramps, childbearing, childbirth, breastfeeding... Which is okay, I guess. For the love of someone else, sacrifice no longer feels like sacrifice.



But we're wired this way, half-masochists, half-something else. Pain gets addictive sometimes, especially when it involves a certain somebody who's exempted from all your rules. He gets special priviledges to trample on your pride and rob you of your self-esteem, and VIP access to your heart only for him to break it into shards and leave you picking up the pieces. He deserves to be forgiven 77x7 times. He deserves you.



And it's about time that you realize you don't deserve him. I am very, very, very happy. More than that, I am very, very proud of you. For putting your foot down. For finally saying no. For finally letting go.



I have nothing else to say, so with Shakespeare's sickeningly romantic poem I end this note. The last two years of your rollercoaster ride written in the most beautiful English I know.


Sonnet 35

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting salving thy amiss,
Excusing [thy] sins more than [thy] sins are.
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence.
Such civil war is in my love and hate

That I an accessary need must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.