Testy

In my Men and Masculinity class yesterday, I read some aggravating feminist articles about how men are evil because they don't bleed once a month. I'm not kidding. This feminist next to me (who enjoys this class too much for her own good) was being a bitch in a subtle enough fashion that I really have nothing but an aura to complain about. Sneaky little whore. I wanted to die, just to escape the misery of being who I am. I have no fucking idea why I learn more about feminism in a class about masculinity. I also don't understand why I came into this class strongly believing in androgynism, yet the ideals of what is masculine or not is shoved down my throat. However, if I tend to agree, say I think that ballet is feminine (I actually don't care) then I am labeled a sexist. Awesome. I love this class so much. Why? Because this means that I am the smartest kid in the class, and everyone else sucks ass, except for Garrett. It's a whole heroin high of superiority. We had to learn how to check for testicular and breast cancer using fake rubber boobies and testes. Embedded in the silicone was a little lump that was supposed to be cancer. While I fondled these peanut sized balls, Garrett stole a pair. I couldn't find the cancer. I told my professor that I don't regularly check myself for any cancers because when I die it want it to be a surprise. I don't want some old man with a stethoscope-crystal ball predicting my six months to live. If I'm not already living my life like I could die tomorrow, I'm wasting it. Everyone in the class gave me this look like what I really meant was I don't want my testicles. Afterward, Garrett and I walked into the campus buffet. We walked right past the place where you pay and helped ourselves to some food. Then we walked out carrying ceramic mugs of hot chocolate. No one noticed, no one stopped us. You know why? Because we're that awesome.