Forgiving men is so much easier than forgiving women.
I have periods now, like normal girls; I too am among the knowing, I too can sit out volleyball games and go to the nurse's for aspirin and waddle along the halls with a pad like a flattened rabbit tail wadded between my legs, sopping with liver-colored blood.
I am tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great compliment to a woman.
Vanity is becoming a nuisance, I can see why women give it up, eventually. But I'm not ready for that yet.
When women let their hair down, it means either sexiness or craziness or death, the three by Victorian times having become virtually synonymous.
A man is just a woman's strategy for making other women.
My friends, who are both women, tell me their stories, which cannot be believed and which are true. They are horror stories and they have not happened to me, they have not yet happened to me, they have happened to me but we are detached, we watch our unbelief with horror.