Her colleagues at the office called her the battleship of feminism.
It took her five and a half years to get to where she was now, and with seventeen people below her this office was her realm.
Before she got here there were more woman at work then man, she has hired a couple of men to even it out, although one was illiterate and the other couldn’t speak a word of English, and last year she placed a mute gentlemen behind a desk to answer the phone calls who recently had to go on sick leave because of a polyp on his vocal cords.
She was a strict as she looked, she did everything possible to look unattractive to men so they would treat her as an equal, she even had a breast reduction, and ever since that her chest has been flat.
She ironed her pantsuit each morning before work, her hair was cut the same way each week at a lesbian Lebanese hair salon, just to make sure it wasn’t appealing to men.
Her make-up was simple because it was only meant for presentation not seduction, a little power to hide her droopy eyes from her workaholic lifestyle.
And she finished it up with some purple lipstick to finish it up.
She stepped into the office and went straight to the office kitchen to get a cup of coffee before she would get to her usual day of work, and as she was pouring herself a cup she saw a printed out photo of her from the last company Christmas party.
Someone had had drawn on it with a black marker, she now had a mustache and a stubby beard.
She was greatly insulted and fired the so called cartoonist after she had finished her coffee.
The rest of the day she was still feeling angry and took it out against everyone and everything that had a penis (or an over sized clitoris).
Today was Friday and at the end of the day she went home (all alone),
She never liked her weekends for a multitude of reasons, for one Saturday night meant her weekly phone call with her old fashioned mother asking her how long it’ll be before she will get grandchildren.
The rest of the weekend was spend watching news networks and intelligent talk shows about politics and such.
It was Monday morning and she was in the middle of her morning ritual in becoming the least attractive woman on the planet.
She looked at herself in the mirror, the mirror image filled her with content, she looked at her self from her belt up to her hair.
She checked to see if her lipstick was put on right when she suddenly saw something she had never seen before.
Woven its way through her red blouse was a little curly black thread.
She grabbed it with two fingers and pulled out the chest hair.
“Gotcha!” She shouted.
It took her five and a half years to get to where she was now, and with seventeen people below her this office was her realm.
Before she got here there were more woman at work then man, she has hired a couple of men to even it out, although one was illiterate and the other couldn’t speak a word of English, and last year she placed a mute gentlemen behind a desk to answer the phone calls who recently had to go on sick leave because of a polyp on his vocal cords.
She was a strict as she looked, she did everything possible to look unattractive to men so they would treat her as an equal, she even had a breast reduction, and ever since that her chest has been flat.
She ironed her pantsuit each morning before work, her hair was cut the same way each week at a lesbian Lebanese hair salon, just to make sure it wasn’t appealing to men.
Her make-up was simple because it was only meant for presentation not seduction, a little power to hide her droopy eyes from her workaholic lifestyle.
And she finished it up with some purple lipstick to finish it up.
She stepped into the office and went straight to the office kitchen to get a cup of coffee before she would get to her usual day of work, and as she was pouring herself a cup she saw a printed out photo of her from the last company Christmas party.
Someone had had drawn on it with a black marker, she now had a mustache and a stubby beard.
She was greatly insulted and fired the so called cartoonist after she had finished her coffee.
The rest of the day she was still feeling angry and took it out against everyone and everything that had a penis (or an over sized clitoris).
Today was Friday and at the end of the day she went home (all alone),
She never liked her weekends for a multitude of reasons, for one Saturday night meant her weekly phone call with her old fashioned mother asking her how long it’ll be before she will get grandchildren.
The rest of the weekend was spend watching news networks and intelligent talk shows about politics and such.
It was Monday morning and she was in the middle of her morning ritual in becoming the least attractive woman on the planet.
She looked at herself in the mirror, the mirror image filled her with content, she looked at her self from her belt up to her hair.
She checked to see if her lipstick was put on right when she suddenly saw something she had never seen before.
Woven its way through her red blouse was a little curly black thread.
She grabbed it with two fingers and pulled out the chest hair.
“Gotcha!” She shouted.
