Damn you, Jane
Austen. Last week, I was
sick from a stomach
flu that just wouldn’t quit.
I couldn’t leave
my room without letting the clips from my mouth fall where they may and my
throat was skinned away from the acid in my body and I was forced to master the
art of the whisper.
High on cherry
cough drops, I had not
choice, but to lay in bed, wrapped in a five-layer blanket burrito, a
trashcan by my side and my laptop balanced on a pillow that was perched on my
stomach watching Pride and Prejudice. It was my “sick
movie”. But, instead of
thinking about all the class I was missing, or all the homework I had to do, or
trying to keep down my soup, all I just kept
thinking of was that Jane Austen was kind of a bitch. Now, I am not
bitter, but why did men stop wearing top hats?
Sometimes, I feel
that the feminist infected the gentleman till he hesitated to open the door for
her. Now, most men today have all the romance of a red solo cup and the female
empowerment of a rap song.
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