Happily Devoid.

I am no longer conflicted. The conflict between my changing nature and what I thought was comfortable is now gone, disappeared. There is always this transitional period, where you feel a discomfort and then you are confused, you try and convince yourself to go back to comfort, that state of being at ease because everything comes easily. But no, now I am at peace and resolved I would like talk about the three stages Elaine Showalter mentions in her essay, she talks about the three stages through which a woman (as a writer) goes through; Feminine, Feminist and Female. Feminine (these are now a very personal interpretation of the stages) being as simple as confining yourself to the norms and accepted realms of the patriarchal order, you talk how a woman is supposed and how it has been presented. In television or in any popular influential medium, its a struggle where you are trying to be an image of the perfect woman with fragile, 'cute' or 'sweet' characteristics that enable the infantalization of a woman as a child or 'baby'. Well, I don't recall going through this struggle, but I must have, because its impossible to move into the Feminist without visiting the Feminine. Feminist is the woman who has learned to hate men, everything, every action and every word from their mouth is sought to be bashed and criticized  Well, I am actually very well familiar with this one. And then the Female, when you are at peace with yourself and subtly change the world around you. Me, I am somewhere stuck in between the Feminist and the Female.
Anyhow, except this confusion, I am actually quite clear and sorted, for a change. I have made a decision. I don't feel the lack of men in my life. I won't mock the ways I had in other people, but I am extremely happy devoid of any strong masculine presence in my life (except brothers). Earlier, during this process, I thought I was sad and hopeless about men, therefore I must have started feeling this detachment from the structured gendered relationships. But now that the transition is done, and I am comfortable with the idea, I find myself extremely pleased. So much so, I don't even miss the warmth I was so obsessed with. I might heartily welcome a partner IF it ever comes across, but as for now my life and current discourse is minus ANY man and what a bliss it is. There is so much effort women put into these tiring so-called relationships, so have I. But it seems foolish now, to waste so much time, even men for that matter. There are people  I know who would rather do something productive with their time than waste it over convincing their girlfriends. Relationships are and have always been overrated, and oh how much of myself I had assigned to these till some time back.
While thinking of this, I tried recalling movies that had successful YOUNG women who are happily indulged in their careers and have absolutely no regard for a masculine presence in their lives. Many came into my head, but they are old. Like Devil Wears Prada and...i go blank, so I ask my friend, she says the same and Sex and the City, but that is FULL of women getting in and out of relationships, well with the slight exception of Samatha Jones. Julia Roberts in Eat Pray Love maybe a good example. So now I gather my thoughts and try and recall happy or successful men without women, so many! Greatest example Godfather, what women? where women? whose women? All the mafia movies don't even bother in the first place. Shawshank Redemption, Pulp Fiction, Taxi Driver, Captain Sparrow in initial parts of Pirates of the Carrebean, you think of the greatest movies ever made, and you will find men in it paying no or very less regard to the women in their lives and still continuing satisfactorily. But women in particular are obsessed with being dependent on men, even if its for some entertainment. They cannot imagine themselves without either brooding over men or obsessing over men. The sheer nature of dependency is so well rooted that imagining a structure that is anyhow functioning with absence of masculinity, is unimaginable and many will probably typecast a lot of women for doing so.
But I shall shift my 'reading' of the structure of relationships to a more personal post. So yes, this stereotype was so well rooted in me that I started feeling that probably there is something wrong in me, or maybe I was actually getting depressed. This notion is also strengthened by people, not in my case though, but I have seen women treating a woman who is single and fiercely successful as someone who probably has issues in life, maybe she still loves someone, maybe she is escaping her loneliness  maybe she is depressed and what not. So, clearly I was suspecting and experiencing all this in me too. But now, finally I figured. It is not that.
Being alone is a lovely feeling. You don't need a man in life who will waste your time, to understand your importance. You don't need to be called beautiful or busty by a man to actually accept yourself. I might still be hanging between the Feminist and the Female, but I believe that women around me, who complete my being without ANY lame expectation are one of the building blocks of my disposition. And how I love them.
:*

Hair.

They tell me I was born with lush black hair as a child, and my mother was so glad that her daughter had the same beauty. I was told that she nurtured them like she nurtured a little child. She would brush them, oil them , wash them with fragrant soap and keep them covered whenever we went out. As I grew older she made sure that my hair were always kept short, because some aunt told her that if she kept them short, they will grow long and lustrous later. So like my clothes, which she paid special attention, my hair were kept and cut with utter care. And until I was 10, my mother made sure her daughter was ready to reveal her beauty and let her hair open.

I grew up and became as beautiful as mother wanted me to. Wherever I went as I child, people stared at me and wondrously admired the sheer beauty of my hair. Though I wasn't old and my body was still tender, people treated me as an object of admiration. My brother was always protective of me, and made sure that I didn't wander about without supervision, he wasn't controlling, he was just scared and always wanted the best for me. Whenever we played and got bruises, my mother rushed to nurse them and like every other detail made sure they left no mark on my body. My body, so well kept and so properly preserved.

Few more years after I hit puberty, I saw my mother becoming more cautious and careful. She made sure that I had all the right people beside me, the right and proper company. This selected company, had mostly girls my age and few boys, who she thought as harmless. With time, my brother became controlling, like a little kid, he accompanied me to every corner of every place I went. Every step I took, every person I talked to. My hair were always kept in braids, as mother believed this gave them longevity and beauty. At times, when I was alone, I would open my tightly tied hair and take off all my clothes. Mother found out about this once, and gave me my first beating. She bruised the body she preserved.

Soon I was on the verge of finishing my teens. Like my hair and body, my life was kept under strict instructions. Mother always said that my hair were the most beautiful she had ever seen, and  this pride made me smile. So whenever I stepped out with my hair open, I made sure people noticed. In no time, I fell in love. He too loved the hard work of my mother. As he caressed me, he always brushed though my hair. He made me promise that I would never cut them, even if I ever wanted. Being in love, I promised I never would. But like younger days, I still sometimes stood naked in front of the mirror, and imagined myself without these beautiful locks.

It was a typical winter night. I was coming back from work. Yes, I started working right after graduation, as mother thought it was a nice idea. Though it wasn't very dark, but I could feel the warmth fading away swiftly. Waiting for the bus, at an empty road, i heard few men approaching and nearing me. Being unaware, I stood politely. They came to me asked my name, before I could answer, I was smothered and took away in a van. Inside, four men, stared at me waiting to devour. The first thing they grabbed were my hair, the luscious long hair. They caught me with it, so I didn't escape. And with their tight grip, they mutilated this body, that my mother preserved for years.

I stood again, doors locked this time. Naked, with marks and wounds all over my breasts and vagina. They had bit me and hit me. My mother kept asking and banging. But her voice, like all the others faded into an oblivion. I always kept a scissor in my cupboard, for some cloth cutting. With my hair open, I took it. Staring right at the unknown reflection, I cut my hair, bit by bit. Dried blood fell with them. Their grip was tight. Their softness touched my body as they fell on my feet. Strand by strand, I cut off. I thought of her, who vowed to bathe her hair in the blood of insulters. That night, I broke promises, broke hearts and ripped myself off my beauty. My mother broke in, fainted and fell on the pile of hair on the ground.

So Still.

I have been lying like this for more than two hours. On my back and staring right at the ceiling and wondering about things to say. We had made love, quite a few times and then some more. But since I turned my back on him he has kept quiet. Very quiet and very still. While blowing away smoke and shifting my gaze to the side wall, I talk. I talk to him about several things, things that bother me and the ones I love. I tell him a story of how I liked playing houses when I was young. Though it wasn't exactly houses, but that is one game I enjoyed the most. I would dress up as a young bride, waiting for her husband. The other girl, as my husband would come and hit me. I asked her to. So when the hitting and cursing was over, I made her throw herself on me and as my husband, force me. I kept on elaborating my game of houses, and he kept listening without any reaction. I tried reaching for his hand all this while, but I was too busy holding the smoke.
I keep quiet for a while, and kept waiting. Supposing he fell asleep, I started confessing, and talking about other things. I told him which I would rather never dare. So I closed my eyes, and slipped into nostalgia, recollecting reminiscence of Happenings. Despite the silence, I began to feel a cold tension in the room. So, to avoid any further diversions I began another tale. This time it was longer, and I was older. I started with the tale of my parent's marriage, how they fell in love and how happy they were. I think I felt his smile in the air. With that assurance and comfort, I went on to elaborate their love and affection. How he liked to caress her before sleep, and how dedicated she was for his happiness. How their first child was brought in with great care and love, and how their warmth almost killed him. But I skipped that part, and jumped on their happiness over my birth. They called me their gift, as my mother had prayed for a girl after the first boy got lost. I told him all the gifts they got me, all the presents they built around and all the other people they brought. They celebrated this much awaited child, while the lost one, sat quietly near a pool. Well, I liked the attention I believe. But I tried to make him understand how it was unhealthy and why did it had to stop. Instead I continued narrating, it was very rare to find him as a listener. So my parents, I believe were too happy, and they left me with strange men. And as soon as they came to get me, I wonder why didn't they see, anyways I never wanted them to see.
I shift the topic, he seemed like he was getting bored. Though my back was still towards him, but I felt his presence. I didn't stop. I told him of the many nights, my mother waited on the bed. And the many nights, my father spent on other beds. Interestingly, I kept a picture of those women, I supposed if he asked me 'Why?' what would I answer. So I confessed, that I liked collecting souvenirs. From every woman I kept something, like from one I had a gown, from another I had a picture, a letter from someone else and a book from the other. I collected what they left behind, like my mother gathered me as a souvenir he left behind. I felt the air getting tensed, so I chose some funny stories to get rid of the thickness. I told him of my first flight, my first dive, first ride and first kiss. Even though he didn't laugh, I believe he must have felt amused.
This was the first time I ever talked, and surprisingly he let me. He didn't ask a question, neither sought an explanation, and after many years I fell in love with him again.I felt like the young girl who wasn't afraid and who never cared. I had a man who cared. I had a man who loved. So I decide I need to kiss him, and just as I turn, the stillness of his body frightens me.
I check his heart and breath for conformation, so still. Everything, every part, every organ, every movement, every contour..so still. I run my hand through his eyes to shut them, they don't seem warm. He had been dead for some time. My man, lying lifeless, cold, pale..without the slightest bit of warmth, heard me. He heard it all, listened to my stories and didn't ask. He didn't ask about the women my father slept with, he didn't ask about the men who took care of me, he didn't ask about the lost brother neither did he ask about my mother. He heard me, while I smoked my troubles away. I look at him, and remember a fat dead dog I saw on a road once. Death makes you tiny. So little and so harmless, so perfect.
My perfect man, lying lifeless...so still. 

The Other Woman.

I was young and so was she. We lived and loved for a little while.

She asked me what I liked and did all I loved. 

We met a lot, and talked a lot. She would make me talk about my partner.

And I told her I was happy. Then she would lean and kiss me

I asked her if she ever loved, she asked me too.

We both didn't know, so I held her hand and took a long stroll.

As the darkness dawned upon us, we parted. I never stayed past evening.

My partner waited for me every night. And every night I went back, only to her.

Another morning, another night. The separation was hurtful

The reconciliation was exuberant. She loved to talk

And listen to me. I told her my dreams, the foolish ones

And the innocently grand ones. And she told me she wanted to travel.

The evening passed quickly and the darkness would arrive soon.

I could not let her go, neither did she want me to

She held my shoulder and asked me to stay. How could I refuse?
How could I ever deny her of my love? As the evening slipped away, so did our fears.

Without revealing her pleasure, she leaned on me like every time, and kissed.

Only this time we didn't part.

I was received warmly by my partner that morning. She seemed normal.

Unaware, untouched, she took me through her day.

I listened patiently and laughed at her jokes. I played with her hair

And caressed her face. She cooked for me and sat beside all day.

When she fell asleep, I thought of last night. I turned and told her I loved her.

And in that quite unlawful moment, I thought of her. Not of my partner.

But her, The Other Woman.

Honesty.

"Its a tale, tale of sex and a woman. The prominence of this word in her life has been unavoidable. From a child of five to a young woman of twenty, she lived and loved through this emotion."
These are the first lines that came to my head when I sat to write this post. Meaningless or not, but the importance and significance of this word dominates men and women throughout the world. Either they love you for it or they detest. You tell them the story of your sexual endeavors and they talk with envy. You tell them of your sanctity they critique. Such and many more questions creep inside me. These trivialities have the power to bother you and keep you occupied. There are standards we set for ourselves, there are a set of parameters we have decided to stick by and follow. From sex to ambition, they teach you humility. They teach and want to instill in you the seed of humbleness. Humility is not bad. Of course not, its one of the very few things that actually makes most people bearable, but it is that very force which will pull you down. But I ask for one thing, one thing I plead to have my children growing up with. And that is 'Honesty'.
'Requiem for a Dream', I watched this utterly disturbing movie after a very long time, it is very simple. It disturbs you. That's what its prime motive is, it makes you believe in drugs as the catalyst for their destruction. Drugs are not the focal point of this hopeless movie that ends in trauma. What it is, is lack of honesty. The mother's dishonest about her love and needs. The son dishonest to himself. The black guy dishonest to his own desires, and the girl too much of a liar. The movie reminded me of 'Panic in The Needle Park'. I hate, have always hated such drug-driven movies where young men and women step on their lives for they are addicted to petty escapes. But 'Requiem for a Dream' is different, as it is not entirely about drugs. Its pathetic and disgusting, and the sheer catharsis of such emotions proves its success. By the end, Clint Mansell's musical masterpiece has hit you, you keep staring at the screen. Almost blank. These petty people, living unworthy lives despite having all the opportunities. The objectivity driven critic in me takes the space and I find it all arbitrary. But it makes me think. This pathos and tragedy, is too obvious. And now my focus is back on the need for Honesty. 'Carnage' for that matter is one of the movies like 'Blue Valentine' that is true. But there is an enormous difference between the two. 'Carnage' is beautiful with sugar coated couples in not-so-unhappy marriages. It makes you laugh and by the end you are rolling and at the same time smiling at the sheer beauty of this simplistic genius. Beautiful actors fighting like heroes and warriors over petty issues, its as honest as a movie can get. Then there is the poignant awe-someness of Blue Valentine. It takes your popular and spoon-fed ideas of happy endings and shoots it in the air. But very subtly.  Honesty is not easy, neither is truthfulness. But there is more to it than acting as broken damaged beings. It is not merely an acceptance of your actions. Its the strength of confessing your carnality, the cannibalism which when hindered, drives people crazy.
Its a scary thing, Honesty is scary and risky. Either you gather the courage to face your deepest darkest most violent desires, or you abandon the very idea altogether. Take your time and breathe in. Face all of it. There are small fragments, from the time you watched your first movie to the moment you lost your virginity. The desires and cravings you buried inside give birth to untamable monsters. We all have a short or very long list of things we wish we had done. One little guilty pleasure that your mother dismissed for its profanity. Or that long night you spent thinking about competition and envy, but being a sin, you choose to eliminate it. These breath-taking desires are beautiful. You may want to sleep with your brother or murder your first bully. From sheer innocent ones to extremely dark and shameful. We were programmed, even before we were born, about the things decent enough to be done. About the things that are acceptable, about ideas that are agreed to. From an evil ambition to a crazy sexual fantasy. its these strongest to weakest questions that we refuse to answer. Day by day, they pile up. Year by year they coagulate and you are the perfect patient of neurosis. I am too. I have so much to do, and I am still learning to break those boundaries of what's acceptable and wild. But I seek Honesty. Tell me your tale of a wild day or a suffocatingly simple night. Nothing is as simplified once filtered with Honesty.
It is very hard, I feel it. We are already mutated. But I desire. Desire that our children will not be this corrupted. They will have this strength that somehow we managed to lack. I want them to be able to take a look in that dungeon where they will save their most precious cravings. And when the time is right, they won't be afraid to let them loose.
And feel free. 

This Guilty Smoke.

Another hour dragging by, heavily. I feel the weight of every second
I feel the strength  with which every minute pushes me lower.
Cramps in the stomach, sweat lightly making its way to my forehead.
I stare right out and see smoke. Wet smoke, covered in rain, tempting me.
Another hit of this excruciating pain and another glimpse of the sky.
Smoke. I see in the drizzle. Smoke, making its way through.

Panting heavily, trying to catch breathe and not giggle.
My lower lip tastes of blood and my nails left same on his chest.
I breathe and try to inhale as much as I can. The hotness and humidity in the room
Reminds me the smell of burning tobacco leaves . With each sip I would drink in relief
Suck in the hot burnt smoke, feel the paper blackening and turning into ash.
The red hot tip of my cigarette, takes me in like this lover did.

It was a gathering, huge crowds of people running around.
Populating every inch around me, whispering, screaming, shouting, laughing
Their empty words echo through my head and rustle up my hair.
Many touch and push. I crawl and slip away through the herd.
My head throbs, its the same pain. I feel it travelling to my legs, and I cannot stand.
This helplessness is miserable. I find a place. Sit down and light.

Another night, ushering in loneliness and silence. The green friend
Is a pleasant company. I whisper to the light smoke, which leaves its fragrance
Every place it goes. It caresses the headache, and caresses my heart.
I talk to it about the love I can't have and the one I didn't have. We whisper quietly
All night and talk it through. With every kiss, it would tell a tale.
And soon, it would hold my hand and put me to sleep. Like my lover would do.

Lovely Breakdowns.

One of the many things I believe to be underrated, is BREAKDOWN. Until or unless girls and little boys use it in place of the anxiousness caused by a romantic call two days late.
I think a breakdown is that Di Niro doesn't have in Taxi Driver, a breakdown is that Martha Marcy May Marlene's protagonist doesn't familiarizes herself with. An absolute silent, also the most dangerous breakdown is that of Stephen King's Carrie. This surrender to your impulses, and an outburst of being organized, too meticulous, this losing of control, stabilizes you. It either gives you what you seek and have been demanding for long or it ignites your deepest desires or fears from the subconscious. A breakdown lights you up, either happily or into ashes. It picks you up from the point where you stopped understanding, where you were too scared to peak in and left unbothered. They are seen as weak, but we need to remember, seen weak and vulnerable by who? It is either by those stuck up people who didn't even have the heart to experience and realize a trauma in the first place, forget accepting its impact. Or this judgment is made by few of those immodest ones who recovered theirs long back and now get kicks out of seeing others suffer.
Now, this is one of those very few psychological theories that I don't find elitist. These are applicable and visible in all kinds of people. A rickshaw wala has a breakdown when he goes home and beats up his wife for the first time. A 'kamwali' is going through a breakdown when she takes a leave for no exact reason, except feeling tired. Even Okonkwo from Things Fall Apart has his final breakdown, ending in destruction. Its doesn't have to be out of a particular instance, it doesn't have to be a major emotional accident, it can simply be a series of events, that you don't avoid. Those events and actions that you permit day after day, day after day only because you believe that normalcy is the symbol sanity. Sanity is finding vibrancy in chaos around you, like 2 Days in Paris. And I believe strongly, that once you have been touched by insanity, you can never let go. This reminds of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, a beautiful movie, a beautiful escape. But like Shawshank Redemption, I always wonder, if these men who have been institutionalized and tortured in every possible way, find normalcy as soothing and relaxing. Can that huge black guy find freedom in that final escape, will he ever speak freely? But that's where the beauty is, it is in the fight. The struggle that feels unreal by its magnitude is dissolved. You look back in disbelief and try, try it for the effort.
But these lapses are caused by individual desires., how someone has been suppressing them and how will they rediscover them. There are times when even the littlest task of getting up in the morning is painful, you keep trying hard, harder to feel in sync. I know I felt it. I started believing that trivialities of life, the meager problems people tend to discuss and ponder upon are insignificant. Because there are far important and bigger issues that kids our age across the globe dealing. I believe greatly in thankfulness, and these days I magnified my understanding. I started forcing myself to ignore little disappointments, as I am luckier than 50% kids. Why should I complain about a distrusting partner or a failure, whereas I can pull myself up and try for better things in life, as every day thousand of kids die before they even reach teenage. These questions and arguments are far far away from invalid. But when I burst out, I agreed and accepted my space, my personal emotions. This absolutely does not imply, that I shall be ignorant and ungrateful because I am not in that part of world, and hence my biggest concern should only be the boy I like.
Again, I pertain a very subjective point of view of life. But this subjectivity is quite often mistaken by objective thinkers as selfishness. Subjectivity gives you the power of understanding. It conveys to you that even though ten people might speak the same language, but their words and methods of communication can vary extremely. If I had continued to look at things the way I was starting to, I would have forgotten the beauty of Taxi Driver, the strict smoothness of Scent of a Woman, the thrill of Dead Poets Society and the captivation of Avatar.
Beauty lies in the little things that go unnoticed when we get stuck up in a routine we have designed unwillingly for ourselves. Sometimes a great painter might not feel like painting and a prolific writer would want to stop. It is important that we give ourselves this time. It can be painful, breakdowns usually are, because after them you are changed person. Its like dying with complete consciousness for few minutes and coming back to life. These outbursts of pent up anger, guilt, thirst, lust, love, hate, fear or power, are as necessary as the very presence of these emotions. Because believe it or not, it makes us human. 

Angst.

I am angry. I am over that phase of disappointment and lost hopes. What I feel right now and for the last few weeks is sheer anger. I am angry at men, at women at people who walk and breathe around, angry at the beauty that is decaying and delivering molds to the very world I thought was once inspiring and driven. I am holding myself to not go American Psycho on the society. Of course my intentions are not anywhere close to materialism, but the anger and sense of unreal is overpowering. But I am not confused or sad, I am disgusted and infuriated. Several instances and uncountable moments of absolute mindlessness and swinish attitude has turned this knob on to maximum heat.
Well, this is probably the shortest, simplest and strongest one: Men. No, not the ones who disappoint me romantically (I will come on to that later), but the men you walk past every day..every single fucking day. The same men who stare the nakedness out of you, the ones who make you pull your dress a little down to cover up your thighs, the same men who are too curious to feel your breasts not caring a fig about your life. The men who in their most indecent tone ask "Sun zara, legi kya" to any random girl walking home from a regular grocery store. The same man who groped my friend long and hard enough to push her slippers on the track, which by some chance avoided her falling and being squished to death. Yes, the very men who scare you enough to not dare step out of your home past 10 without company. That every other boy who after being slept with once expects you to be his full-time-no-charge whore. The teenagers who drive a car past you when are properly clad and sharing a good laugh with your friend, and honk the daylights out of you accompanied by whistling and some pervert comments. Those middle-aged 'uncles' who while sitting in the general compartment of metro stare fascinatingly in the women's section, as if lustfully observing some alien species who are probably travelling naked. That very man to whom a two year old is an object of sexual arousal, so much so he decides on assaulting, raping and  murdering her. Those guys who similarly stabbed and raped a 65 year old to death in a parking lot. And that very cult who lets these men roam around freely like there's no tomorrow. The men who are raised by patriarchal personifications of a sadist woman at her best, who teaches their sons that the more you fuck, the more manly you are . Those regional bastards who have no problem in tearing apart clothes of a young girl who sinned by walking alone on a road, not to forget they were 30, and she was alone. The men you trust and love, who ask you about who you talked to, whose car you stepped in, whose place you went, whose food you ate, whose air you breathed, you cock you sucked. Those very men who would trap you down, no matter what. Whose aim and highlight of their lives is to tie a woman on a bed on her stomach, and fuck her till she faints and surrenders. Every man who spent five more days with a woman so she could sleep with him, and then abandons her. The men who you remember, from your childhood, all of you, who probably touched you some wrong place, felt you some wrong way, showed you something inappropriate and may be even went further. Those girls who like being teased and called with indecent sexual euphemisms. Those very girls who will probably outcast you in teenage years if you haven't been approached or hit on by a guy when you were 13. Those women who so pleasantly prohibit the birth of another girl so much so, that she'd rather have the infant's fetus devoured by dogs. The guards who blame you for assault. The people who judge you for wearing slightly shorter clothes. Those very men who have no problem with jerking off in front of a five year old. The media that popularizes female sexuality by making barely clad women dance to provocative songs and declaring it as the emancipation of women and liberation from traditional bondage. The same men out of whose fear you wear that shrug over that lovely dress. The men your mother warned you against. The men you love. The men you hate. the men who still in the 21st Century expect their ideal wife to be a virgin while they fuck around all their lives. The men who stared you from top to bottom while you passed that metal detector. You are an object. You are to be fucked and trapped. They smooth talk about love, they get you to meet their mothers, they are surprised if you cannot boil water, they are angry if you've had a sexual life.
So hide. Hide those legs. Hide those arms. Hide those secrets of being a sex goddess, hide the love and hide that neck. Hide the face and hide those eyes. Get out of the room assigned to you and go to the kitchen. If not, cover up you face and silent your hopes. Silent your expectation and wear fuller clothes, talk less, tell less, breathe less, ask less. Plead more, be dumber, cry more, beg more for attention and giggle more. Or shed that strap from the shoulder and flaunt it to the man you like, because that's good, the dogs get tempted to smell of fresh steak. Salt it up and pep it up. Pull that dress over and over. Naked or covered, you are still a steak. Get married, why work. Work, get paid for bigger cups. Have babies, teach them all you were taught.
Because that's what women do. Otherwise they are pushed, rubbed, ridiculed, stomped upon, laughed at, disowned, left lonely, abandoned, surrendered, rejected and left.
So, Get Trapped.