Free So Sad Today by Melissa Broder Page A

not wax my pubic hair at all—to just leave that shit alone—because I am afraid of rejection. Like, I’m afraid that if I let it grow in, it will be too painful to ever wax off again (the first time I ever got waxed, I lay on the table with half a lip waxed off and the other one hairy, crying
I’m a feminist
). I’m afraid that I will have sex with someone who prefers no pubes and sees me as less-than, because I have a big, hairy bush. True, I could have sex with someone who loves pubes and feel judged about my bare pussy. But, like, the other way feels scarier.
    I feel bad that when I see feminism used as clickbait, it kind of makes me want to puke or die. This is not a condemnation of the contemporary feminist movement (or movements), but a revulsion to clickbait. To engage in depth with the ephemeral that is marketing culture makes my inner witch nauseous. I feel like if I read the article I am being poisoned. Like, I am a vampire and clickbait is my garlic, and to turn feminism intoclickbait is just a giant fucking puke—and not the sexy kind.
    I feel bad that I see myself more as a witch than any kind of -ist. I have a tendency to shrink from -ists. It might be because I am an isolator and have social anxiety, and don’t like groups or labels. Having said that, feminism is implicit in my witchery.
    I feel bad that I don’t know what makes me a witch, I just know that I am one.
    I feel bad that I am a crappy witch when it comes to my body. Like, what the fuck kind of witch eats Lean Cuisine mac and cheese and not Kraft full-fat macaroni and cheese, or regular homemade mac and cheese (or vegan mac and cheese, if she is a steward of the earth and all of god’s creation, which seems to me would be implicit in being the best witch and best feminist/humanist/person one could be). If I were the CEO of a coven I would be like, “Yo, this Lean Cuisine–eating witch is unacceptable.” Though, if I were truly the ultimate witch I would accept where I am and embrace me, so maybe in that way if I were the ultimate feminist I would do the same. But there is still no embrace. I just cannot seem to give myself that hug of the divine mother that is like,
baby baby baby it’s okay
.
    I feel bad that I don’t have a dick. I tend to think that some of my struggles with living in a body are because itis a female body. I tend to think that if I had a male body then all of my problems would be solved, but that’s probably false. If I had a dick I’d probably never get it up.
    I feel bad that even though I want a dick, it’s a casual want. For the most part, I identify with my physical gender. I feel bad that I can live without the fear of intimidation, harassment, or getting the shit kicked out of me for wanting to be what I am, whereas transgender people still can’t.
    I feel bad that when it comes to dicks I’ve been a size queen in the past. I think my desire for a man with a big dick has to do with the fact that the dick I’m fucking always feels like it’s my own. It’s my surrogate dick. Like, if I have a dick, I want it to be big. But truthfully, big dicks and medium dicks feel the same inside.
    I feel bad that when a younger person tried to suck my tits recently, there were depth-perception issues involving sagging. Like, I think he expected the nipple to be higher up than it was. The first time he went for the nipple he missed. I feel bad that when I wrote a poem about the incident he thought that I was accusing him of being in love with his mother. What the poem was actually attempting to say was that I hoped he was in love with his mother, because if he could be in love with his mother, then maybe he could forgive my droopiness. Maybe it would even turn him on extra. That poem sucked.
    I feel bad that when the younger person told me my pussy tasted like
rain and a mountain spring and a Fabergé egg and a waterfall cave where celebs meditate
, I felt proud. I feel bad for feeling proud. Why is a waterpussy