Oops, it turns out you drew the short straw in life. That’s right, you’re a woman. First of all, I’m sorry. We women have it rough. As if it wasn’t bad enough that we bleed from our ass cracks monthly, are forced to endure the pain of childbirth, and are bad drivers by nature, we also have to worry about something else that happens to us — being murdered…like a lot.
As a small child, I grew up watching Dateline as so many young children with incompetent nannies do. When I wasn’t grappling with the sexual awakening I had from Keith Morrison in a cashmere sweater, I was noticing a particular trend in these episodes. Most of them involved a female victim, and the victim was almost always very attractive.
When you stop to think about it, this makes sense. Normally the killer is some deranged white guy who falls in love with a chick way out of his league who is also married (read the room, my friend). When she rejects him, he snaps and kills her with a kitchen knife but in a way that makes it look like her husband did it until the last 15 minutes of the two hour episode which leaves you not only saying “yikes,” but also “that whole episode could have been half an hour if they didn’t keep showing that same picture of the victim over and over cause it’s the only one they have.” But anyway, I always left these episodes feeling very conflicted. On the one hand, I was afraid I was going to be murdered as I, too, am a woman. But on the other hand, I questioned, am I worth it?
I’m not going to spend this article flogging the dead horse that is the unreasonable beauty standards young women are forced to measure up to, but I will say that we’ve all been there. We’ve all looked in a mirror and thought, “can I pull off biker shorts or does it just kinda look like I’m wearing a mormon bathing suit?” But until recently, I was plagued by the voice in my head telling me that, no, I don’t need to carry pepper spray because the idea that someone would choose me as their victim seems slim to none based off the recent evidence in the form of my YES account picture that they seemingly airbrushed for my commodore card out of sheer pitty. Keith Morrison will probably never be forced to sit in a chair across from my mother and ask her to relive my tragic death in detail, and NBC executives definitely don’t want to show my Facebook profile picture from 2015 on air, nor should they.
I try not to seek validation from other people, mostly because I’ve never had any. Now, I’m not saying that I felt the need to be murdered in cold blood to consider myself attractive (a mere swipe up on my selfie would have had a similar effect most likely), but I’m also not going to complete the rest of this clause.
But then, last week, I had an epiphany of sorts. I was sitting on my couch still very much un-murdered when a thought ran across my mind. “You know what, girl? You sexy as fuck. And let’s be real, if you were alone at night I bet you that some Jeffrey Dahmer motherfucker would rip your flesh off and enjoy it.”
This, ladies, was my turning point. I realized that by victimizing myself in my own mind, I could know my true value and beauty. I am absolutely worth murdering and I will not allow anyone in my life to make me feel differently.
To conclude, I hope that you too can come to have this enlightening revelation that I had the privilege of experiencing. You are cute as hell, go get yourself absolutely shanked. Literally. We are the women who will define our generation. Let us not be a group who yearns for the approval of men with trust funds. Instead, let us yearn for the cold blooded hands of the men who roam our city streets, desperate to see the life leave our eyes as we take a final breath and think to ourselves, “I knew I was worth it.”