Sure, I’m a Feminist, But If I Support Other Women, How Will I Become the Highlander?


How does a woman reconcile her quest for gender equality with her quest for glory?


I’m not like most other women. I love bingeing on chicken wings and throwing back a few beers, I wear combat boots instead of heels, and I’m immortal. Girls may glance at me sideways for this, but it’s just who I am. Always have been more of a guy’s girl and also immortal. It’s not that I’m not a feminist; it’s just that I constantly find myself in competition with other women—for men, at work, in a seemingly never-ending quest for ultimate knowledge. It takes up all my time and energy, and I just don’t know that I have enough empathy left over to support other women.


Frankly, doing so would get in the way of my quest of becoming the Highlander.



Do you know what it’s like to be pressured by society to tell another woman she looks good when she might also be waiting for a chance to slay you and drain your life-force? It’s fucking exhausting.


Feminism as a movement really speaks to me, because I don’t want to be treated like an object or a stereotype of a person; I want to be treated like the individual I am—a bloodthirsty killer who will do anything for a quickening. I know so many women who don’t even know they can achieve a quickening. It’s sad and points to a lack of education around women’s immortality and what we can achieve when we know ourselves and behead our partner. Or a perfect stranger who is very clearly also immortal. There is nothing wrong with murdering somebody you only met that night and we shouldn’t judge women for that sort of personal choice.


Women shouldn’t be ashamed of telling people their number. When I talk to a woman with a high number, I’m like, “Damn girl, your thoughts will forever be consumed with the cries of the dead. Killin’ the game.”


This is how society should treat all female immortals.



On the other hand, there can only be one. So while I’m giving major compliments and paying tribute to the mighty, there’s also a big part of me that’s like, “Okay, so now it’s weird because we both want to absorb the invaluable lessons and skills of the other via decapitation, and we should just be real about that.”


It’s like I can’t just be happy for another immortal woman without wishing it was me awash in the glow of a recent quickening instead of her, or picturing the look on her face right before I deal my final blow. I just always reach this point with those kinds of women when we both realize we’re thinking about killing each other, and it makes it really hard not to be catty. I want women to succeed and I think it’s important for all of us to band together and demand equality, but I also want to soak the streets in the blood of my frenemies.


It’s hard to be sworn to the sisterhood when you’re already sworn to the sword, but being a better feminist is a process, and I’ll keep living and learning, which will get increasingly easier as I consume the wisdom of those who have fallen before me. Because, in the end, we’re all in this together—and only one of us will survive.


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