Am I the only woman in the world who doesn’t have the slightest desire to celebrate her “womanhood” by engaging in a lively dialogue (or monologue, as the case may be, and is, in the lauded Eve Ensler book/production) about empowerment gained by appreciating the ins and outs of the sacred flower that blooms between her thighs?
Maybe it’s because I discovered the joys of my ‘gina when I was but a wee girl, but I just don’t see the need to sit in a circle with a hand mirror and sob as I finally get a gander at what’s “down there”, thus unlocking a mysterious Pandora’s Box and unleashing decades of pent-up woman energy on the Universe.
Oh, look. So you have a cunt. A twat. A pussy. A vagina. A flower. It’s all so stunning and marvelous and beautiful. Big deal. You can acknowledge it. And you can even say it! Cuntgratulations!
Let’s all hug, and weep, and make a quilt together, panties-less and pantsless. We are women, hear us bore!