Saturday, January 18, 2014

a cult of one's own

I finally picked up the garbage book this blog is named after. Here's what Virginia Woolf had to say about what it means to be a [non-otherkin] woman like eighty fucktastic years ago.
[CN: quality writing] Let me imagine...what would have happened had Shakespeare had a wonderfully gifted sister, called Judith...His extraordinarily gifted sister, let us suppose, remained at home. She was as adventurous, as imaginative, as agog to see the world as he was. But she was not sent to school. She had no chance of learning grammar and logic, let alone of reading Horace and Virgil. She picked up a book now and then, one of her brother's perhaps, and read a few pages. But then her parents came in and told her to mend the stockings or mind the stew and not moon about with books and papers. (A Room of One's Own, 46-47)
Blah blah blah garbage fart. She goes on like this for a whole page and a half. Then she says:
The birds that sang in the hedge were not more musical than she was. She had the quickest fancy, a gift like her brother's for the tune of words. Like him, she had a taste for the theatre. She stood at the stage door; she wanted to act, she said. Men laughed in her face. The manager--a fat, loose-lipped man--guffawed. He bellowed something about poodles dancing and women acting--no woman, he said, could possibly be an actress. (48)
Obviously, Virginia Bitchface is describing my life to a tee. My life is fucking hard and I've had no education, financial support, relationship freedom, etc. But I fucking persevered in spite of all the people who hate me and the fact that I hate all other people.

But Ms. Bitchface does not get it.

You don't get it, Virginia Bitchwoolf.

Judith Shakespeare would not have killed herself. She would have started a blog where she constantly berated and shat on her readers, all the while claiming that she was not berating and shitting on her readers (she has a shitting disorder where she can't even shit).

You don't get it, Virginia Bitchwoolf.

Mesus christ, people. Idon'tican'teven on your child support donations.

UPDATE: This is not a place for people who have actually read Virginia Woolf to come in here and try to explain or defend her. If you want to talk about Judith fucking Shakespeare, go start your own fucking blog.

You don't get it.

UPDATE 2: I'm DONE. I will leave the comments open for now, but only because I fucking feel like it, and I haven't shat on enough people yet today.

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