Feminism -- Why the Hell not?

As you can probably tell, this is gonna be a rant.
The other day I was pimping my newly purchased t-shirt* to a co-worker. I wait for the obligatory, "ohmigod I want one", but to my surprise she has the nerve to say "but I'm NOT a feminist". What the fuck? She's an intelligent eighteen year old girl. It's not like she wears Laura Ashley, demurs to her husband and never swears. (This is the same girl who once said "I think I cut my twat with that tampon".) She believes in equal pay, equal work. She's grateful women have the vote. So why the fuck is she eschewing the title of feminist?
I've actually had this conversation with many women. In college, most of my friends would shudder and say "well, I want equality, but I'm not a feminist". Huh? What they were saying, of course, is that they shave their legs, enjoy sex (or at least sexual activity) with men and love their lipstick. Hmm, so do I, and you know what? I am a feminist. I don't get why this stereotype so affects people. We've all heard the jokes, seen the parodies (e.g. the "womynists" from PCU), but do we as a society really believe them? Aren't we smart enough to realize you don't have to hate men to call yourself a feminist?
Come on, all of you youngsters out there, give me hope. Tell me you do realize that you can wear pink, giggle and still be a feminist.


*For those too lazy to click a link, t-shirt says:"Just because I like to be tied up, spanked and called bitch, doesn't mean I'm a bad feminist."

A Day without Menthols

It's day one in my quest to stop smoking, I've been up for two hours. Two hours have never seemed so interminable in my life. So, I decided to pull up the old blog and bitch to the world in general.
In keeping with this blog's nature, let me express my craving a bit more creatively:
I can't stand it: my hands are so restless, my mouth twitching, itching for a cigarette. The inside of my mouth is so dry, as arid as the Sahara, one might say. I must do something to quench this unending thirst. My hands trembling, I reach for the soda can. My soft pink bow-shaped mouth slides against the cold, wet can. The sweet liquid passes through my lips, caressing my tongue, chilling my uvula. It isn't enough, it can never be enough. My bodice heaves as my breathing becomes labored at the the thought of my next smoke. My emerald green eyes light up as I spot the slender blue lighter hidden amongst the papers on my desk. No, I mustn't, must I?
Yeah, a little over the top, I know. But I have to amuse myself somehow.
Spell-check doesn't recognize uvula, what the fuck?