Dear Friends and Family,
In our current political climate, everybody is more than aware the world is being ravaged by none other than a deadly, vicious virus: angry, annoying feminists. These women are demanding equal rights, rioting on the streets, speaking out against abuse from their male counterparts and drilling for an end to gender discrimination. Demanding respect — as if they deserve that. As if they’ve earned it. I have always considered myself to be clean of the illness they call “feminism,” with my life devoted to actively trying to avoid the contagion. To me, those afflicted represented the lowest level of society — the self-proclaimed victims who do nothing but complain.
Feminism is a disease that leeches onto women’s souls — making its victims utterly undesirable to the men who are forced to listen to their constant nagging. It’s an instant repellent. For research purposes, I reached out to Chloe Findling, a well-known victim of feminism for an interview. The interview itself had to be conducted over the phone, as I could not risk catching the disease myself. Findling, a freshman at Scripps College, was diagnosed with Class-A feminism, or, the scientific term Feminista Fatalis, when she just a vulnerable, unsure 14-year-old.
When describing her mind state prior to her exposure, Chloe explained, “When I came to high school, I had a really hard time with boys because I was insecure and I thought I could mold an identity for myself that was not like ‘most girls’ — which made me secretly malicious.” When asking what she meant by this, Findling described an urge to manipulate her female friends at the benefit of the men she desperately craved the approval of.
This helpless mind state was the perfect storm for the feminist plague to pry into Chloe’s mental stability. The warning signs were subtle — at first, she had no way to identify the sickness infiltrating her wellbeing. Instead, she only started noticing symptoms when the feminism had already secured its power over her central nervous system. Her brain started identifying what she referred to as “inherent sexism,” a myth fabricated by feminists to validate their so-called “victimhood.” Once Findling recognized this, she felt the uncontrollable urge to spread her disgusting feminist germs to other innocent members of society. She marketed her contagion as “empowerment,” using the mantra, “Empowered women empower women” to draw more victims in.
She discussed her experience of coming to terms with the illness taking hold of her body, saying, “I found comfort in myself and in my gender, in my personality, in my beliefs, in everything I stood for. I became who I really am, and now I use my gender as something that empowers me, instead of letting it push me to be something I’m not.”
The feeling Chloe described is one very common of those affected by the painful disease. Doctors describe the process of contracting feminism as a gradual rewiring of the brain, causing symptoms such confidence and determination to arise from the illness’ destruction. As a direct result of this, many victims find themselves in a warped mental state, motivated to bring down the so-called “patriarchy.”
While Chloe painted her exposure to feminism and its side effects as liberating, I knew her lies were just a side effect of the plague. I stopped listening to her speak after less than two minutes of the interview — her statements were so foreign to me that it sounded as if she was speaking in tongues. Everyone knows feminism manipulates the mind — halting all ability to conduct rational thought. As second class, inferior citizens, a woman could never truly feel comfortable in her own skin. Even the thought of that sounded absurd. My discussion with Chloe served as a symbol of the feminist deceit, so I stayed as far away from her as possible. I refused to fall victim to the disease.
But I have been plagued.
I tried to keep my health as long as possible. I took all of the safety precautions necessary. I scrubbed my floor daily on my hands and knees, rubbing extra hard to make sure no feminist bacteria grew. I shaved morning and night to make sure I was not mistaken for an armpit-haired feminist killjoy. I rallied for candidates who wanted to take away women’s reproductive rights. I gave up the 28 cents I should have received myself to far more deserving male coworkers. I even wore face masks in public so that feminist air wouldn’t penetrate my healthy skin.
But therein lies my fatal mistake. I did not wear my face masks in the comfort of my own home. How was I supposed to know that a victim of feminism was in front of my eyes this entire time?
My mom never discussed her illness — it all happened so quickly. To be honest, I’m not even sure she was aware of how ill she was until the encounter. Feminism is a clever disease. It affects all of its victims differently, causing some to have more external symptoms than others. My mother’s sickness was internalized, making it much more difficult for people, including myself, to identify her suffering. Because of the illness’ artifice, I innocently brought up my encounter with Chloe to her, thinking she would rally behind me in my investigation of the most reckless of our time.
But I was wrong. Her mouth opened, and out poured pungent, powerful stenches of rationale. She preached, “Women deserve equal rights, end of story. Right now, society seems pretty messed up, and I really hope our future brings a brighter, more equal atmosphere for women in all spheres of influence.”
I was shocked. I was confused. I started to cry. When I went to wipe the stream of endless tears from my face, I made a traumatizing realization: I was not wearing my face mask.
I was plagued. The feminist disease hit me harder than any illness I had ever experienced. I had become a walking parasite. I felt the chemicals rewire my brain, and suddenly my thoughts told me it was okay to believe in equality. Like Chloe, I was soon able to identify the sexism within society, and I wanted a change. I was not inferior to any man. I could be whomever I wanted to be.
It no longer felt like my brain was being hijacked by invasive mutation. With each symptom becoming more powerful, feminism became a crucial part of my identity.
I later found out the feminist disease runs in my family, though scientists have yet to prove it is hereditary. My grandma too is a feminist, demanding equal pay to her male counterparts as she continuously exceeded their performance in the workplace. Hearing this before would have caused me to disown her, but now that I am sick, I am incredibly proud of her efforts. It’s funny — my illness makes me feel strong rather than feeble. I guess that’s just a paradox left for scientists to figure out.
I’m sorry if I’m hurting anyone by announcing this to the world. I just couldn’t mask my disease anymore. Although I may be ostracized from society, condemned by the patriarchy, and exiled to a life of liberation, I felt as if you all deserved to know. I do warn you, though, the mutation is very powerful, and it’s coming whether you like it or not. Those affected, including myself, expect resistance. Nevertheless, the feminist disease will persist. After all, the illness has grown an immunity to opposition.
An ill-bodied, parasitic, toxic feminist (aka Andie Horowitz)