Hey, haterz. So recently in class we did a writing thingy where we had to write about where we would like feminism to go in the future. I was really creative (as usual) and made like a diary entry from 2034 (that’s in the future). My professor helped me like, make it more formal by editing it and stuff, so it came out really professional and shit. All my Women’s Studies friends loved it. This is exactly the direction most feminists want the world to go, those who say they don’t are lying patriarchy sympathizers. So, yeah, like, read it and let me know what you think in the comments.
August 3rd, 2034
It’s a late summer’s day in Boston. Overweight XY flies are buzzing about on the windowsill, too lazy to take off. The warm sun is casting tolerant rays through my touchscreen blinds. I wake up in a daze; last night was a blast, that much I can remember, but I have a blistering headache that puts me off from trying to recall any details. The SHARD notices that my eyes have opened and a forecast comes alive on my Smart-Window, promising temperatures in the 80s, but even this August blessing does little to cheer me up.
The EstroPad on my shoulder seems to be malfunctioning because I’m not feeling very tolerant as I have my Manbot pour me some chamomile tea at the breakfast table. I take a sip of the steaming, fragrant tea before regulating my E-intake and I feel a warm glow of bubbly empowerment spreading through my body. I’m in my foxy 40s now, but I look virtually the same as I did in my 20s. My friends claim that I have the E-pills and plastic surgery to thank for my youthful appearance, but I am adamant that it’s just my fab-genes working their magic. I look younger than most women my age. I draw many jealous glances, so I am happy.
The Tele-Wall powers up and tells me the morning news: A butch genderqueer huwoman is reading the news with a strong cadence and steely eyes.
Gynocrat Clinton was today welcomed in Swedish Gothenburg after a two-hour whiz across the Atlantic via the 2030 Rail. It’s no secret that Sweden has long been both Gynocrat Clinton and her mother, former President Clinton’s, model country, a strong ideological Mecca around which they’ve based their politics throughout their careers. Huge smiles were played across our Great Good Gynocrat as she greeted Swedish Prime Minister Mrs. Dahmer. The primary reason for her visit was to witness the demolition of an installation of un-art, namely a fountain statue of a nude Duo CisMale without herstorical evocation, but a bubbly chat over scones wasn’t out of the question in spite of these formalities…
The newscast continues.
Miley Bieber, the daughter of the former CisMale artist Justin Bieber, was released from rehab after her fourth stint …”
"Off." I mutter. Strangely I don’t feel like hearing gossip at the moment.
I have been living alone since June, and I couldn’t be more happy. In June, my husband was to my great relief sent to work at an oil rig outside of Alaska by the commission of MMEB (Mandatory Male Employment Bureau), a great initiative by Gynocrat Clinton. (I’m starting to get over the fact that her father was a chauvinist adulterer.) Four million Duo CisMales were sent from Boston alone at the beginning of summer so the city has been free, vibrant, and bedecked with rainbows for months. It’s been delightful not having that troglodyte dragging his knuckles around here, even though the Manbots remind me very much of his presence.
Me and my girlfriends have been out having fun with different Unos every night. I’ve had plenty of funds, so I set up an Automatic E-wiring of my husband’s wage to my 3D printer, so as soon as he makes a dime, it shows up at the apartment (after the femme taxes are deducted, of course). Gemma’s husband Mr. Dumbo Ears is a clear-cut DuoCis but he hasn’t been shipped yet. It makes me sick to see him in my presence—the smell, the Adam’s Apple, the ears—but I don’t want to hubby-shame Gemma.
…Gonads! Gemma, I’m supposed to meet her at Greer Park, in like, twenty minutes. I spray-clean myself, dab a Little Anti-Testosterone Serum on my forehead, and put my Gender Tag on my chest.
It’s already getting warm outside and as I make my way out on Marx Avenue, the sun’s rays dance on my pretty face. But I can’t enjoy this too long, because the sight of a couple of short, dirty, Duo Cismales scurrying toward me makes me want to hurl. Scum. They look down at the ground as they pass me, their Gender Tags emblazoned with the glaring identification Hetero-Caucasian Duo CisMale/Status: Privileged/Demeanor: Rape-Prone.
They’re very short; they must have still been in high school in ’29, when MSO (Male Stunting Operation) was implemented in the curriculum of all secondary schools in an effort to close the male-female height gap. I’m 6-foot-4 now. Their foreheads are branded with one word. PRIVILEGE. That way, every time they look at themselves in the mirror, they can check it.
I wonder why they’re hurrying so; are they escaping some duty? Oh, well, I mustn’t concern myself with their doings. It’s unorthodox and I can’t be bothered to alert a Tolerance Troop anyway because I don’t know if any are nearby.
As I reach the edge of Greer Park, an Afro-American Elder Trio CisMale suddenly comes lumbering toward me. Afraid for my very life, I clutch my Michelle Obama design purse and look around to see if anyone else is seeing what is happening. Nobody looks my way; everyone is wearing SHARD glasses and are too immersed in them to notice anything amiss. I feel disgusted, violated, and creeped-out as he looks into my eyes and approaches me, yet there is something familiar about him.
A few more steps and he is officially committing rape. I feel myself almost starting to cry. His body odor is slithering into my nostrils like a rotten adder, his gaze is supplicating, pathetic. I tap my Alert Watch repeatedly as I back away slowly, sending distress signals to every Tolerance Troop within a 5-mile radius.
It doesn’t take long before the well-known Siren of Tolerance sounds somewhere not too far away, and before I know it, a group of Tolerance Troopers is wrestling the TrioCis down to the ground. The TrioCis wails and begins to shake as he is firmly held down to the ground, whacked a few times with a baton, and given an EstroShot. A Genderfluid TransAboriginal person clad in the Tolerance Troopers’ rainbow-colored uniform puts a hand on my shoulder and comforts me. “It’s OK now, he’ll be put away for a very long time; you can breathe again.” Suddenly Gemma is by my side, out of breath. She must have seen the incident from afar and had come to rescue me.
“Are you OK, Anne?” she asks and almost starts to sob.
“Yes, I was just a little…startled.”
A croak is heard from the ground, the CisMale’s voice is trembling, “I…I…I am sorry, Ms. … I didn’t mean no disrespect, I was just gonna ask for some change.”
I walk up to him, looking down into his black, teary eyes and say confidently: “Old man, we all asked for change once, a long time ago, and we got it. Oh, did we get it.”
Gemma and I laugh, and as the CisMale is dragged away, we continue our walk through sunny Greer Park.
“I know,” sighs the old man audibly as he is dragged further and further away from the park and the women are long gone. “I know all too well,” thinks Barack as his heels begin to bleed.