I’ve calmed down today, you’ll be glad to know. Haven’t gone for any Republican eye sockets with my stiletto, or attempted to locate Newt’s family jewels with my knee. We may get through this election cycle yet.

I have to tell you, it’s difficult to know who to be sometimes. We all have strong opinions–we are writers, after all–but I have never learned how to argue a point without becoming shrill or feeling the need to apologize or capitulate. Now, for instance, I want to tell all my male friends that of course yesterday’s post wasn’t about you, it was about the tea-baggers and sugar daddies and the Rick Santorums of the world who want to take back one of the most fundamental tools for female equality.

A month or two ago, I would have been certain you’d already know that, but lately I feel my voice lacking in nuance, teetering on the edge of caricature. It’s a little disconcerting to see where that is going. When I hear myself described I sometimes have to read my name a couple of times to be certain there isn’t another Averil knocking about. It makes me wonder who I am becoming in this reality. An f-bombing Betty Boop? A pin-up girl with an expression of helpless surprise and a tendency to flash her polyester knickers? A modern day Lauren Bacall with a straight razor under her pillow and a pair of handcuffs dangling from the bedpost? Roseanne Barr trying to flirt? Who the fuck am I?

Who are you?

If you were to make a caricature of your online persona, what would you look like to me?


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