When I found this site with unicorn poetry(via some other site, I don't remember- possibly Gawker), I winced. These (and I'm assuming a lot, I know) women haven't gotten over their Unicorn phase. And don't look like they ever will. Creativity is good and all, but wow. I guess I never identified that closely with unicorns. Or pegasuses.
| Look into her eyes | |||||||||||||||||||
4 comments:
Fucking weak. Weak, weak, weak. These women ought to go back to whatever the feck they were doing before they began to write. Hopefully, reading.
The mean side of me comes out when I read this kind of stuff and realize that it's probably some 40ish largish kind of virginal woman responsible. I want to shake her, tear off her unicorn purple sweatshirt and lead her bleary ass into a shall we say, adult life.
And then I remember Dawn in Welcome to the Dollhouse, and I get very sad inside. These women are shut ins who read all of the books about unicorns ever written. Over and over.
Someone throw Dostoevsky's "Notes from the Underground" through their feckin' shut-in windows. I feel no pity for them. They're also the ones crying "woe is me, 'cause I'm such an artist and no one appreciates it."
Right, then.
God- the bracing shock of Dostoevsky would probably kill the poor dears. But I suppose it would no doubt do the trick. We could always chuck Austen or a Bronte in afterwards as a bandaid.
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