Lonely People

Misogyny Bores Me

I sat in the bathtub, my knees pulled to my chest and my back to the faucet. Water fell on my head and dripped down my back. The entire thing seemed to be straight out of a dramatic movie. The main protagonist sits in the shower and contemplates life while water dramatically falls around them. It was the indoor alternative to taking a depressive walk in the rain.

The scene reflected my mood. Water vanished into the drain like my hopes had vanished into nothingness. Everything I dreamed was as pointless as the water falling on me. Part of me wanted to go down the drain with the water, at least then I wouldn't have to face a world where I didn't play in a band. 

"I think I almost have the egg out," Molly said, "At least your hair will be extra healthy after this."

Her fingers were buried deep in my hair. The eggs had crusted and matted into my hair, almost becoming a part of my head. I tried to get it out, but I couldn't see it, so Molly volunteered to help. She's been picking shells and yolk out of my hair for the past hour and a half. My scalp was becoming tender from her constant jerks and scratches, but I said nothing. 

"My hair could fall out for all I care," I muttered.

Molly sighed, "Come on, Melly, don't you have a single happy thought?"

"No."

Molly shook her head. She continued to pick through my hair, occasionally finding a shell or a gummy yolk. I kept my eyes on the wall, flinching every time she caught a hair wrong. 

Smiling seemed impossible after I quit the thing I loved so dearly. Quitting the band hurt just as much as Dad kicking us out. I expected it to hurt, but not this much. I felt internally crippled like my heart needed a wheelchair. Everything felt pointless and the world had lost several beautiful colors. I saw no point in waking up, getting dressed, or even going outside if I couldn't do what I loved. 

"How about," Molly smiled, "After we get this egg out of your hair, we'll go down to the record store. Maybe there's a new Buddy Holly or Chuck Berry out."

I sighed, "I guess."

"Honestly, Amelia, we have to do something to get you out of this slump. I've never seen you so upset."

"I think I have a right."

Molly stared at me for a moment. Eventually, she dropped her arms and sighed, "Eleanor Amelia McCartney, pull yourself together."

I turned to look at her. She was a stern mother, staring holes into me. Just as I was about to say something, she cut in.

"Sitting here wallowing in depression will do you no good," Molly said, "You have to stand up and fight it."

I frowned, "How am I supposed to do that? I already quit the band."

Molly had originally fought me on my decision, but, eventually, she came to terms. She agreed with me when I did it, her turning on me now wasn't going to do any good. If anything, it just made me feel worse.

"You've lost the battle, but you haven't lost the war," Molly explained.

I shook my head, "Seems like I lost the war to me."

"Maybe you did," Molly replied, "But, what do you do when you lose a war?"

"Wallow in self-pity and hope I don't get killed."

"Wrong, you lead a revolution."

I glanced up at her. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, the sort that came to someone when they were planning something diabolically mischievous. Her very muscles trembled in excitement.