Ever since I wrote Me Too, I’ve been in a foul mood. Until then, I had never listed all the outrageous things that men have done to me in my lifetime. I’d never looked at them in one big, steaming pile. Now I don’t think I’ll ever be able to avert my eyes again. And since then I’ve thought of even more criminal behavior.
And then, to make matters worse, learning about Al Franken and Charlie Rose makes me want to vomit. These were men I looked up to. Charlie Rose, in particular, has always struck me as a man of integrity. Ugh. What’s next? Is someone going to out Mr. Rogers or Bob Ross? I don’t think I could stand it. I might jump off my bridge.
I mean, I expect stuff like this from Trump. (And shame on me for helping to perpetuate this warped culture like that.) But are all men animals? Is testosterone such a heady hormone that we’re not even safe when wearing Kevlar?
I know it’s never a good thing to tar an entire group with one fetid brush, but seriously, this is too much. I am done with men for the foreseeable future. The thought of even throwing my hat back in the dating ring makes me sick. The cons of having a man in my life far outweigh the pros as far as I’m concerned, and it will take one heck of a man to convince me otherwise.
This public fury has been a long time coming. And the sad thing is that I have absolutely no idea how to purge it from my system. It’s like we’ve all, men and women alike, been injected with a poison that we can never metabolize. That’s no way to live.