DABA, DABA, DABA.... what's a grrl to say to you? You've gained fame, been praised, mocked and even been labeled a fraud, all within the last month. You're more volatile than that pesky stock market. But I guess what I really want to say is this.... you hurt my feelings.
True, much of what's been said about you cannot be denied -- you're vapid, shallow, deceitful and embarrassing. But that didn't stop me from wanting to be friends. You made me laugh, whether out of comaradery, disgust or shame, I'm not quite sure. There was something about you -- a silliness, an openness, a lack of fear that you'd be labeled. You didn't seem to care what people thought, you were gonna say what was on your mind and make it okay for others to say it too. Though I didn't agree with you I appreciated your bravery to speak your mind and be who you were. Even if it was all a scam - it was a successful, intelligent one. And that gave you some points in my book.
The point is, DABA, I liked you. That is until you uttered those unforgivable words: "DABA is a safe place where women can come together – free from the scrutiny of feminists–"
Who? Moi? Surely you can't mean it? Oh, but you did. And I'm sorry to say our friendship ended then and there. I was counting you in as one of my card carrying bitches when all along you were just another flunky who avoids the F-word like she would a man who makes less than six figures. For shame, DABA. Where is your pride, your sense of sisterhood? Where is the person who was supposed to teach you that Feminists are not your enemy? You who claimed that what really irked you was the fact that your "FBF" could no longer afford to hang with his successful girlfriend. You don't believe that women and men are equals? Maybe you never looked up Feminist in the dictionary. Maybe you've never owned a dictionary. Your boyfriend wouldn't buy you one perhaps?
I'm sorry DABA, it's just hurt feelings talking. You made me feel like that skinny, pale girl with glasses and puffy black hair who doesn't get asked to stand with the popular blondies at recess (of course none of you are blond, but you could be if you wanted to). You could do anything -- you were in the NY Times for fuck's sake. So you go on and make that book deal - it'll be Candace Bushnell meets The Hills. And a part of me hopes it all turns out to have been a scam put on by savvy (still a bit shallow) women who know deep down that being a feminist ain't so bad.
Love,
Pink Hand Gun
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