Hello, God? Are you there? It’s me, Ari.
I know I don’t believe in you, but like, if you’re real it would be SUPER cool if you proved your existence by clearing my acne. (Is this some heathen-non-believing punishment shit? If so, not cool, dude. Not cool.)
Seriously, my skin needs to chill out. Here I am, spending my paycheck stocking up on Mario Badescu products and drinking so much water that I am literally peeing every 15 minutes. I’m Googling homeopathic remedies for clear complexions regularly and have held coconut oil in my mouth for an extended period of time. Seriously. I’m doing the most.
And yet, these pesky red dots pop up as if it say, “I have zero respect for you as a woman, and more importantly, a human being.”
I have no choice but to blame one thing and one thing only.
Sure, you may be asking, Ari, how does a system that favors men suddenly mean you have shitty skin? And fair, anonymous person. It’s a fair question! And the answer is, it doesn’t! But if women get victim shamed and blamed for bravely speaking out against their abusers, can’t I yell at men for my bad skin? If a group of Expired Cottage Cheese Men want to tell me what I should do with my uterus (but think my emergency cesarean section or postpartum depression should disqualify me from insurance coverage), why can’t I yell at them for this cystic pimple that is so deep and painful I can’t even POP it??!?
Remember how a gender wage gap of 20 percent still exists?
Oh patriarchy, you want me to earn less than a man for the exact same job AND pick at my zits until they accidentally start bleeding! You’re so giving.
Now before you start accusing me of being a feminazi and, haha, YOU KNOW, a woman with opinions on equal treatment and the importance of dismantling gender norms, I need to run.
My face mask is waiting for me.
Along with a lifetime of internalized misogyny.