I believe it was Maragaret Attwood who said that in order to inspire herself a little to write, she'd paint her fingernails. Well all ten my fingernails are now black, as are my toes, so let's see where that gets us.
First, in premature response to the black, I'm not an emo. There are moments, but I can't call myself a full-fledged child of the night (nor, I believe, can most card-carrying emos, but I'm not going to stoop to bashing this time). It turns out I'm too reliable. I'm that solid doesn't-fall-to-pieces sort who keeps her head in an emergency, no matter how much I don't want to. It's a virtue, I'm sure, but it doesn't put you in the running for Ms. Femininity. Although I'm sure historically speaking, the feminine role has more often than not been one where the women sigh when their men drag the bleeding kill across the carpet and cope with any amount of household work ranging from raising small armies of children to scraping out the privies to defending the castle while their husbands are away crusading somewhere. We're a generally reliable sort, women.
It's a tiresome thought sometimes. We just... cope. It's been true of our own family, where we've done very little but cope for several years now. Just get on and do the best we can under less than sporting circumstances. It's not because we're mostly women in our little family of four, it's just I wonder how it might be different if we were all big and bluff and knew kung-fu. Possibly it wouldn't be all that different, apart from other guys in pubs trying to start fights with us rather than buy us drinks.
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