The ice clinks in my glass as I swirl the whisky, hoping to drown both the heat of summer and the waves of feminist rage. I was called a sexist today, adding to the string of epitaths that carve the image of the raving feminist. But you cannot understand my rage.
I rage at the fact that when a man with power calls me sexist, my only recourse is to smile. I rage at the public mockery of women and girls, and at the secret moments of oppression each must carry in their heart.
There is not enough ice to cool the rage, because, as you know, there is a drought.
