I’m just like Greta Gerwig’s Jo March. Trying to be a strong independent woman but instead crying about my haircut and feeling oh “so lonely.”
Getting men to look my way is such a chore. I either have to talk to him about the 2011 film Moneyball, compliment his McLovin T-shirt, or ask him, “why can’t we just print more money?”
Don’t even get me started on dating apps. I used to be pro-choice, but so far, choice has only gotten me swiping left.
Something’s gotta give in my dating life. Maybe surrendering all my free will might actually get me somewhere. After all, if there’s one way to make a man notice me, it’s to ask him his opinion on my reproductive freedoms.
But I won’t stop there! I’d love to hear what he thinks about my haircut, makeup, weight, diet, and career choice. I’ll mold myself to his every whim, because I’m done choosing for myself. I’m now anti-choice.
Anyway, when he finally touches me, I’ll tell him to put his hands on my uterus. That way, he might accidentally find the clit.