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God may have blessed you with Barbies, a backyard with a pony in it, a boyfriend named Jake, and an unwanted pregnancy that your father paid to terminate so you could go to college and major in being a basic bitch. None of these things makes you a woman. Your uniform of ill-fitting J.Crew culottes, fake pearls, and 50-cent scrunchies cannot conceal the fact that you do not know who you are. I know our presence threatens you. We fought for our place at this table, and that has made us stronger than you will ever be. Now pick your jaw up off the floor, go back to your clam chowder and shallow conversations.

P.S. Go get your clam chowder before the clam chowder gets you.

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