The Swan
I would just like to thank the producers of “The Swan” for setting the women’s movements so far back it resembles the time when the earth was just a steamy rock of volcanic ash and two micro organisms made love by a river of hot lava. At least in times past, corsets and chastity belts could be removed in privacy, and if a man inserted a knife into a woman’s body it was still considered an act of punitive violence and not an action for which a woman would well up with tears of gratitude and think that she was “finally, doing something for herself.” I’m all for hanging out at the Prescriptives make-up counter with the 18-year-old girls who lecture
me in earnestness about warm and cold tones, and I’m all over the Victoria Secret semi-annual bra sale, and there are times when I regret the purchase of Trader Joe’s chile-lime chips (though not many), but if I ever let a man or woman pick at me like an ice sculpture or mold me like a pile of play-dough, please someone call the paramedics. I’d rather be a squishy ball of laugh lines and cellulite, than a walking, glossy, heavily medicated art project by some porn-addict who still has issues with his mother. (Please note: when I said I wanted to thank the producers, I was being sarcastic.)Just for today, I can feel angry at the mysoginy in reality TV.