Equal Rights

Critique of Woman

Artist: Genetics Social Construct Trauma

Subject title: Woman. Will go to the highest bidder. Some damage. Artist may go for a cheaper price as the result of damage. Recommend a blue frame to accent subject’s eyes. All sales final. If the subject doesn’t compliment your aesthetic, others are available. Some pieces available for download and filtered for optimal aesthetic value and commodity purposes. Note: Worker artist’s sales are made to the artist’s agent as opposed to the actual artist due to industry standards.

Subject gender: Unspecified. Appears to be a prepubescent boy though genitalia suggests possible trans. Nothing really to fetishize here. Pretty eyes though. Man-hater. Probably gay. Doesn’t look its age, but age is primarily reserved as only a number if you want to fuck a minor. Subject should stop dying its hair and look its age. Stop trying to be young unless cougar or fetish fap grade. Experts agree subject is neither of the latter.

Filter: Same one America uses. Hopes and Dreams.

Museum: Currently resides in A Moment of Raw Truth. Patriarchy Hall. Misogyny Row. Adjacent to the Hall of America’s Denial of Racism and Genocide.

Note: All subjects critiqued by experts in this series are categorized as too much or not enough. Critique for each individual part of the subject is roughly the same no matter the medium. Market value seems to be higher based on pale to medium light aesthetics (does not apply to subjects rendering cultural appropriability and/or labor commodity).

Critique of Piece divided into parts:

This surreal piece has a lot to unpack. The artist’s rendering of the subject is meant to convey its best and exist within its frame, but certain features could have been better portrayed. It’s at best an amateur work and lacks professional detail. One wonders why the artists sought to exist in this realm at all.

Hair: Frizzy. Stray greys as subject is 43. Dye it. Don’t dye it. Oil is good for frizz. Maybe a good conditioner. Also, a hair mask. Maybe just a mask. Wonder what it looks like straight. Get a blowout. Permanently straighten it. Straighten with a flat iron then add selective curls with a curling iron. It looked better curly.

Breasts: Subject is barely an A cup. Flat. Looks like a twelve year old boy with hair. Exposed nefarious pigmented circles (possibly the most vile shape known to mankind who must suppress the circular breast ornament lest it pop off the tit at any moment and latch itself like some unsightly and uncover-girly beauty mark right on a nose) that inspire hate and knee jerks by a select group in society. Did the subject’s breasts begin in this position or are they sagging? I guess not bad for a 43 year-old-subject who had and nursed kids. Hope it used a blanket for the latter if done in public. Disgusting slut. For fuck’s sake, can we get a censor bar here? Actually, no. I think this is allowed. Subject is actually a boy with long hair. No need for a bra unless it wants to slay Goliath. Disclaimer: Everyone critiques this part of a subject, gender and sexual orientation notwithstanding, because misogyny and internalized misogyny. Most everyone. (NOTE: add a NOT ALL clause to the disclaimer). Though, if you want an expert opinion, more in the women identifying squad condemn flat chests (because internalised misogyny is icing on the patriarchal cake). In any case, you can’t body shame skinny bitches. Eat a cheeseburger. Real women have curves. This artist is shit.

Lips: Somewhat crooked from IPV which left jaw line crooked. Weird mouth. May be better if the subject was portrayed smiling. Is it really so hard to paint on a smile?

Eyes: Pretty. Maybe should be cut out before the subject sees its woeful inadequacy in other areas.

Nose: Is it Jewish? Cherokee? What’s the artist trying to convey with that odd bone hump? Is it saying rebellion? Laziness? Probably thinks it’s hot. One of those that doesn’t know it’s actually aesthetically unsatisfactory. Smug. Self-righteous.

Teeth: Is that a fang? Crooked. Overbite. The rebellion against fine grills is coming through strong. Possible vampire. Orthodontists do have payment plans. Fuck your rent. Alas, the subject is blissfully unbothered. You know what they say about ignorance. Surprised no one pointed this glaring error out daily to the artist.

Neck: Smells of blue collar white cherry blossom with undertones of inequality and notes of feminazi. Abrasive. Would be better rendered in baked goods, pine cleaner, cinnamon, and spice.

Arms: Too skinny yet flabby. Scarring from cutting and suicide attempts due to rape and abuse. Needs a tan. Not too much tan. Is that psoriasis? Artist should have rendered after personal trainer application.

Hands: Lined and calloused from hard work. Could the artist not render with lotion or a manicure? Rushed.

Stomach: Unsightly C-section scar due to forced epidural (to make the partner feel better and so they don’t hear you scream), performed by an incompetent doctor who couldn’t be sued. Abdomen has no muscle tone. Flabby. Back fat not visible in this rendering. Weight not to be confused with progress after subject’s over-active thyroid and PTSD left it weighing under 50 kilos. There’s simply no excuse for this with all the mediums available to the artist. Eat a cheeseburger. No, wait, that’s too many cheeseburgers. Don’t render a subject fat or skinny. Paint perfect. Hack artist.

Ass: Given the lack of muscle tone, rest assured, it jiggles. Squats? Step away from the desk and into a gym. Buy those jeans with the built in ass. Stop eating cheeseburgers. Has the artist never heard of a personal trainer?

Pussy: Gross. Nefarious magic muffin. Cursed. Roast beef. Meat curtains. Camel toe. Moose knuckle. I mean, is there anything positive the artist could render here? The smell of it all. Periods are gross. At least the artist rendered at the right time of the month. Yeast factory. The devil’s doorway. The cause of all other major catastrophes not caused by the LGBTQ+ community. That thing responsible for the very downfall of mankind. For fuck’s sake! Where is the black bar? I’ve seen more appealing flaps on a trash can. This artist has forever ruined roast beef. Send nudes.

Legs: Pale. No muscle tone. Too skinny. Needs a tan. Not that much tan. Spider veins. Is that psoriasis? Did no one tell the artist that dermatologists have payment plans?

Feet: Small. Too small. How does the artist’s rendering expect us to believe these feet can hold a body with that much hair upright?

Ears: You’re so hot. You’re an ugly bitch. If you got this done to your body, you’d look perfect. Get a real job. You’re a shitty parent. You’re a shitty person. I don’t like you. I wish I was you. I hate you. I wish I was as skinny as you. Eat a fucking cheeseburger already. Too many cheeseburgers. Loose weight. Gain weight. Use a filter. Ugh, women lie with filters. You’re kind of pretty from this angle. Send nudes. You think you’re better than everyone. Maybe we can be friends. My husband looked at you so we can’t be friends. You’re a slut. You lied about rape. Well, if he hit you, you must have done something to deserve it. I change my mind…this week I’m into blondes. I change my mind…it’s 3 a.m. and I was joking about blondes. You’re a bitch. You’re crazy. You’re old. Can you teach me Cherokee magic? Kabbalah? Stop blaming men and choose better men. Leave him…he’s flying more red flags than Tiananmen Square. Stay with him…you just need to be patient…relationships take work…you’re being too sensitive…it was a joke not verbal abuse. Why would you try to kill yourself? Have you been saved? If they’re crazy, they fuck better. Seriously, let go and let GOD. Your bra doubles as a sling shot for rape prevention. You should be grateful he raped you. You need to get saved. Bad things happen to you because you turned your back on God. Slut. You’re stupid. You’re so emotional. Why can’t you just try to be in a good mood? You’re so much prettier when you smile. Why aren’t you perfect yet?

Conditioned: Yes, of course, but remains defective.

Cost and steps to restore piece to its full aesthetic potential: Face lift, tummy tuck, breast/ass/hip implants, nose alteration. Note: none of these altered recommendations are covered by the artist’s insurance. Teeth, could be covered but subject has a pre-existing condition and is American so no affordable healthcare. Can’t afford insurance or the use of it due to rising rent and living costs coupled with stagnant wages. Has no bootstraps. Lazy. Hair dye, 30 bucks DYI. Subject has a ridiculous amount of hair. Maybe a hair cut to fit the subject’s age.

Summary: Piece is melodramatic. Hypervigilant. Hysterical. Bitchy. Lacks faith and trust. Could benefit from quiet tones. And maybe a smile.

In Memory of a Great Man

Brian Bowers October 03, 1978-October 18, 2020

December 2019, my husband, Brian, had a widow maker. He had a 91% blockage in his main artery. According to his chart, he was without oxygen for 30 to 45 minutes. He was struggling with many issues as a result of this heart attack. Brian joked about having died and came back. I told him he respawned with a shitty lag.

Brian and I were together for 14 years. I found out Brian was gay five years into the marriage. I didn’t say anything. I waited two years for him to come out to me, and later, Ray and Layla. Brian and I maintained an open relationship but remained married. Not just for the kids but for us. Brian called our relationship a beautiful mess. He felt guilty over me. Felt he hurt us and said he ruined everything. I told him that was ridiculous, that our relationship had transcended the burdensome cishetero definition of love and marriage, that outdated, oppressive concept of ownership. Our love evolved. I told him we unlocked a new level.

We had a beautiful relationship. I wish that for everyone. That you find someone with whom you can share a pure love and pure intimacy. I’m lucky, we were all lucky, to have known him and to have had the chance to make so many amazing memories with him.

Brian suffered from depression because of domestic violence and hiding his sexuality. He hid his sexuality for many reasons. He was afraid friends and family may not accept his lifestyle (and some have proven this to be true). He was terrified that in Trump’s America someone might discover his secret and become violent. He worried Layla might be bullied by peers for having a gay father.

I spoke with Brian’s doctor on Friday. He believes Brian died from an oncoming heart attack. This was later confirmed by the ME who said Brian died peacefully in his sleep from a heart attack he didn’t even feel. Brian’s heart monitoring app showed erratic heart rates for many weeks.

Brian was all he encompassed in his characters in gaming. A healer, a fighter, cover when you needed it. Maybe he didn’t have the best dance moves but he still danced. He listened. He protected. He fought hard for women who were victims of domestic violence. He took on all the life bosses. He was always down to finish the fight.

I’ve been sitting here these last weeks trying to understand his death. His healthcare team missed so much. Why? I thought of all the ways this dream of a country let him down. He worked so hard but sacrificed healthcare because it was too expensive. Even with insurance. I keep thinking had there not been a childhood wrought with domestic violence, had US healthcare not been a fucking joke, and if Americans could stop dictating what’s right and wrong based on religion he might still be here.

Brian was a beautiful gay man. I hated watching him struggle with this, and though it may be late, with this post, he’ll be free of the chains that dictated his life choices. Had those choices been made in his best interests, it might have meant a more peaceful life for him. He wouldn’t have struggled with stress, depression, and fear.

People don’t belong in cages or boxes. No one should feel they have to sacrifice the way Brian did. These things killed Brian. For all of you wanting an update on cause of death, that’s your answer. Stress and depression took a toll on him. And it didn’t have to be that way.

His heart literally broke. He’s not going to respawn this time. Check on your loved ones. Be a little kinder. You never know what battle another fights.

Let people love. Please? Is that really so hard?

We’re supposed to take care of each other.

Brian wanted to come out. He was a great man and will be remembered for all the love he gave to us all. Like many of you, I can’t imagine playing this game without Brian, but he’d want us to finish the fight. With a dance.

It’ll be difficult but…

…we’ll make it.

Originally published on Facebook: November 1, 2020

 

Thank you to everyone who donated to The Trevor Project in Brian’s honor.

I Would Never Fuck You

“Write something,” he said in the thirty-fourth of thirty-eight messages sent at 5:14 a.m. on a Tuesday morning. “Anything. Share it. If you want to be a writer, this is what you do. Write.”

The only problem I had with the advice is that I am a writer. A published author, in fact. His words utterly dismissed my hard work and the accomplishment that comes from having published.

I knew this writer from my critique group days. We worked in two groups between 2012 and 2014 during which time, I sent a critique to the man admonishing what I felt was a misogynistic writing style. I cautioned that he risked alienating a large fan base with such a voice. Upon further reflection, I apologized for what I felt might be censorship. He accepted my apology and I put the incident out of my mind.

We stayed connected through social media randomly messaging one another for feedback and encouragement on various writing projects.

I managed to publish my first novel in 2015 and then completed my second novel. After several traumatic life changes, I decided to take some time off from writing to focus on myself. I heard from him a few times during my writing sabbatical. Once, he called offering to help me move, suggesting we go out for drinks afterward. Having already moved, I declined the offer. No big deal.

Our contact remained sporadic but friendly until recently when he called my cell at three a.m. to ask if I was in town. My SO asked who was calling so late, and hearing him, my friend responded, “He’s asking the wrong question. He should be asking why I’m calling.”

The conversation continued as awkwardly as it began, consisting of incoherent ramblings with disjointed references to that critique I had sent some three to four years prior with an odd fixation on my sexual relationship with my ex and my sex drive level. Uncomfortable with the discourse, I informed my friend that my SO and I were retiring for the evening and suggested we resume the conversation later in the day. When I woke, I discovered the following message to which I tried to offer a polite response. He messaged again, but I decided not to respond.

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My silence prompted a barrage of early morning messages, thirty-eight of them, to be exact.

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And so, after a year-long hiatus in writing, I felt compelled to sit down and pen this carefully thought out response:

Dude,

LOL. What the actual fuck? I’ll pass on the critique as, after all these years, your writing is still nothing more than misogynistic drivel. That whole rejected male/fragile ego plot is played out and oh, so cliché, though it lends itself well to your tired, redundant adjectives and poorly written insults. Feminazi? Really? Yawn.

I’d love to write more but must get back to social justice warrioring, but I’ll leave you with the words you requested:

I would never fuck you.

And that’s really what this is all about. Right?

Happy writing,

K. S. Bowers