Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on reddit

I’m a bitch in the streets, a CUNT in the sheets and a slut behind your back. You won’t like any part of it so you’ll label me as “crazy,” but I’ll take that over “clingy” any day.

I’m all for a good verbal degradation, but if you’re going to insult me, please use the correct jargon.

Let’s unpack the multitude of ways you toss shit on a woman’s name. There’s an endless amount of slurs spanning various degrees of offense, but we’ll focus on the classics.



Oh no! 

Were you blunt? Were you diplomatic? Did you address something in a matter-of-fact tone that wasn’t congruent with your usual warm, inviting, and placating inflection? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you may be suffering from a case of bitchiness. 

The symptoms often include fighting for what’s right, opening your mouth at any cost, and calling people on their shit. You may also experience a general increase in volume, the fortitude to walk away from an opportunity that doesn’t fit you, or a malaise that makes you not in the mood to smile. 

I understand you were invited to the meeting, but that was just a formality. Please sit there quietly and if you contribute anything to the conversation, expect it to be parroted back to you and inevitably stolen for credit. 

I understand you were afforded a leadership position based on your aptitude, but try to make choices that appease people so you stay popular. Popular is key. Popular may be common, but that’s only because being liked reigns supreme and that’s not always easy in your position. 

I understand you were treated poorly, but try to take it on the chin. Like a man, if you will. Their words hurt, their actions are deceitful, but you deserve it, okay? They wouldn’t have pulled this shit with their male counterparts because they’re of equal physical strength and that would pose some serious implications to both their safety and ego, but you? They aren’t expecting a peep.

A woman is typically assigned this name when she has said something that has made someone in the room uncomfortable, or just said something at all. Where there’s an expectation for tacit silence and compliance is where our bitches are born. There’s no room for healthy discourse or disagreement. There’s just enough room for a pretty face that projectiles pretty words. No more and no less, as it’s comfortable to sit in the status quo even if it’s collectively holding us all back.

So to my bitches, far and wide: keep bitching. What we call that is speaking up, defending your position, and having a mind of your own and the cost of disassociating from those traits is far too steep to stay quiet. Keep saying what everyone’s thinking.Take your resistance as a sign you’re striking a nerve and stepping into your power. 

You’re likely the only one keeping it real.

Contrary to popular belief, us femmes have come to accept this term as a positive. 

Is the term a little guttural? Sure, but it’s the very cacophonous nature of the word that makes it land with such brawn and potency. You don’t drop “cunt” easily. It’s for special occasions as many of us have come to receive the word as an honorable term. 

It speaks to the durability of the very parts it addresses: the inside of a woman’s vaginal canal, which is capable of both transmitting human life and faking an orgasm. It’s called multitasking, fellas, and you seem to only be capable of it when juggling a marriage and two interns. 

With the right quantity and quality of kegels, it has an unflinching clench. It mirrors the inner work of the very women that bear its name. Cunts are selfish, working round the clock to invest in their own abilities, resources, assets and goals. As they maintain a near-impossible grind, they accumulate horsepower and momentum that makes them an intimidating force of nature capable of destruction should they feel so inclined. 

Here’s the thing: you want a cunt on your side. Caught in a dark alleyway? You’re going to want a cunt for backup. Need to wiggle your way out of an awkward date? Put your cunt-iest friend on speed dial. Said hi to the wrong jabroni at the bar and now you need a restraining order by the end of happy hour? Let a cunt handle it. He’ll skedaddle in no time. We’d pick cunts first in dodgeball if we were allowed to play the game. 

Unlike bitches, cunts accepted early on in life that likability wasn’t their superpower. Finding kindred spirits would be a harrowing process as not everyone can handle their intensity. They don’t socialize for camaraderie, they build partnerships. Every interaction or fornication is a business arrangement and they expect deals to be handled swiftly and above board. 

Imagine living life where every week is That Time of the Month. Cunts are innately allergic to bullshit, as they’ve seen it all. Some may call them bitter or jaded, but we like to view them as ruthless, but capable of being coaxed with the right delivery and accountability. 

The word itself is so meta, it’s inherently cool. From essence to actuality, it’s the only one of the insults that you can completely embody.  I can be a Cunt, while having a Cunt and pulling a Cunt move. It can define my entire reputation and make me entirely unbookable. That’s pretty powerful.


It’s a term that doesn’t age well. 

A majority of women seem to run themselves in circles looking for stable partnerships with one, somewhat well-adjusted young man (or, err, graduated boy.) We spend our entire lives having these relationships marketed to us through every possible channel of mainstream media and then we dip our toe into the dating pool and it seems those were all fictional fables used to put us to bed and pin us against each other since puberty.

Clingy implies that the desire for elements of monogamy, stability, and a guy who texts back within a reasonable time frame means the absolute loss of one’s self. Wanting closeness is construed as weakness and working for a clear, consistent label on a union must mean that your independent desires and free will expire. The fact is it takes someone composed, well-adjusted, and with their shit together to even step into the arena of vulnerability. By the way, by “shit together”, I mean a headboard and clipped toenails since we can’t ask for much more.  

A universal truth, regardless of gender, is that we human beings pursue the very things we see in ourselves. Good, bad, or ugly, our relations with each other are mirrors of our own state.

We don’t stop to consider that the abundance of one’s cup and its ability to runneth over means there is a willingness to fill another’s. That’s a beautiful thing. It’s in the communal, free sharing of love that things like Woodstock and bottomless brunch are built on. 

For the record, just because a woman says she seeks commitment – doesn’t mean she wants it with you.

There’s no denying that sluts are fun. They’re the first to get invited to the party, and they get out of a speeding ticket with an impressive, almost sociopathic ease. You roll with a slut to happy hour, someone’s covering your tab. You get to share a bed with a slut and we can guarantee you’ll learn a thing or two. 

Slut has come to be used colloquially as a term to describe a sexually open and empowered woman. Read: a woman who slams as much ass as her male counterparts. We have a hard time wrapping our head around the concept that a woman can enjoy string-less, meaningless sex and forget your name before you dry off and enter the infantalizing world of flaccidity. 

An inherent rule-breaker, she runs the streets and reinvents the game. In a matter of seconds, the tables turned on you as you’re the one being courted and you don’t know how to handle such flattery. Her ability to catch dick is pure athleticism. She’ll see your Little Black Book and she’ll raise you a bible full of your boys’ numbers that don’t stand a chance to be saved in her contacts. She rolls solo and does a remarkable job at protecting herself and her space at all cost so no one inhabits her phone, head, heart, or apartment for too long. 

Typical male womanizers have to apply outdated tactics like flattery, well vodka, or AXE Body Spray to trap their prey. Suddenly, in the pursuit of pussy, his temp job becomes that “new app he’s developing”, he gives you a breakdown of his CrossFit schedule totally unsolicited and he refers to himself as an “Alpha Male” because let’s face it: no one else will. Sluts take the strategy of the very men who showed them the ropes and left them behind and reciprocate with their game. It’s no easy feat teaching a Viagra a Blue Chew game.

There’s an inherent transparency in these guys’ intentions. They’re after things like empty validation, ego boosts, and distraction, which are all cleverly concealed as “notches on the belt.” A full-bred, genuine slut is in it for the love of the game and can live without all the other pandering and nonsense. 

She fucks because she wants to, not out of necessity or scarcity. She taps into her genetically endowed pussy power and pursues pleasure on her own terms. Such prowess just isn’t in the genetic makeup of a man. Her detachment is scary because it’s eerily familiar, and even though the ball was always in her court (and in between her legs) she’s the one putting points on the board.

There’s no concept of chagrin. She takes plenty of that in other circumstances with bigger stakes so when it comes to sex, this is her chance to unwind and indulge as if she’s on vacation from her own performance. There’s no shame in her walk home. She Ubered on your dime. 

“Crazy” is the original, dirty C-Word. It’s often dropped when someone has to be accountable, so now you, as a woman, have to be insane. 

It’s an impressive attempt at both demeaning mental illness and belittling a woman when she has very justified emotions. I understand the sentiment, and I do find quite a bit of things to be “crazy.”  According to Merriam Webster, crazy” is defined as “mentally deranged, especially as manifested in a wild or aggressive way.”

I think storming a government building is crazy. I think the Tide Pod challenge was crazy. I think literally every policy in the state of Florida is crazy. I think girls wearing matching outfits to Bachelorette parties is crazy. I think wearing a full face of makeup to the gym is fucking crazy. Shit like that. 

Expressing emotion, conviction and the capacity for human response is normal. Not to get too scientific on everyone, but some might say it’s natural.

I happen to believe those on said receiving end of emotion show their inability to process when they group things like a request for communication in the same boat as Florida Man popping bath salts and eating someone’s face. Seems a bit extreme, no? Seems like we can afford to refresh our categorical systems?

Most often, “crazy” gets applied in romantic and/or sexual situations. We’ve come to draw a fine, unforgiving line between logic and emotion as if the two are mutually exclusive. We’ve divided the binary genders on two completely opposite sides of decision-making and then wonder why there’s conflict and an inherent misunderstanding.

Men are, indeed, capable of emotional salience. In all fairness, it’s buried out of unfair societal pressure. Frankly, I don’t envy your position, fellas. In order to maintain your masculinity, one of your primary currencies, you’re expected to disregard and dismiss the expression of feelings. That can’t be healthy! Hire a therapist! Masturbate silently! Buy a weighted blanket just to feel something and put on Norah Jones already!

Yet, as women, we are looked at as these solely emotional creatures delicately composed of tears, whines, cries, and unbridled hormones. If a man displays an emotional response, he’s a hero. If we display an emotional response, we’re strapping a bulls-eye to our chest and asking society to take fire with their handy ammunition being every bullshit stereotype used to demean us in and out of the workplace.

We seem to forget that it’s in the energy of the divine feminine that we flourish. I firmly believe every femme is an empress in her own right. It’s just about pampering her and putting her on the right pedestal. 



photos / Daniella Mía

story / Brittany Brave

Close Menu