I...

I am a woman. Such a bold statement to make, but after a pep talk or two and surplus amount of menstruation, I have come to terms with it. I am one. Yet, as this reality sinks in, I am struck by the limitations of what I can share with the world. The fact that I can't throw my tampons like a bouquet into a crowd while the nation fights to have a taste of my gene fills me with fury. My fair skin being entrapped with a resemblance of what could be a Mormon attire is a shame, a true atrocity, leaving so much to the imagination which, let's be real, isn't all it's cracked up to be. The tales of my grippers would have been a philosophical muse, one that's worth of display. My unspoken skills of retracting the foreskin with nothing but a wink or the magic of a selfie stick would make a grown man cry. The wet dreams of a Jew is what I am. The discussion of, for the lack of better terms, my vagina, has created political stances. The exposure of 10 percent of my hooters would have resolved wars. Not to be too literary, but democracy can't be spelled without double D's. I fear to be a brag drag, but I am your favorite rapper's lyrical drool; behold the term 'bitches' was actually ancestrally claimed by me. I have singlehandedly kept that industry afloat. That's just me, Eden, or, for some lucky fella, your last supper baby.