This isn’t an excuse for my impulsive and disorganized behavior; it’s an explanation. I now know what I was dealing with and can focus on management rather than allowing the symptoms to render me useless.

You’re fine, you tell yourself, and miraculously you are, by some stroke of luck you find it in you to keep dancing and smiling and flip your hair when he looks and pat it back down when he doesn’t.

If this argument was “Consent is a false social construct,” whose side do you think your liberal-arts college feminist club would be on?


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