My own Monologue...thank you for making me free Eve Ensler

My myself VS my vagina
My vagina is sick of transitions! My vagina knows what it means and needs no polite “flowy” sentences to get from here to there. My “self” Is so eager to please that she wants to spend all day transition-ing, smoothing the way for someone else’s ideas, and opinions. My vagina is tried of hearing about your boyfriend! My vagina has forgotten what a gentlemen, looks like so don’t talk to me about your fucking boyfriend. My vagina will only throw out insults that will prey on your insecurity. My Vagina is not angry, (because my vagina is not a copy cat) My vagina is supremely pissed the fuck off. Using profanity where it pleases, laying propriety by the way side, where my vagina will step on it. My vagina is poet, a writer, a muse of the written word. My “self” is a closet artist and is afraid of failure.
My vagina is an extension of myself. Or at least it is supposed to be. It’s supposed to be beautiful and alive, to be a part of the womyn in beautiful abstract. Mine on the other hand has no idea what it should be. My vagina is alone. My vagina is standing on its own, alone.
My vagina knew the basics behind pleasure since it was a tiny child’s down there. It knew, my “self” on the other hand, did not know a thing; It knew the eyes wanted to stare into the pages of Cosmo to see the pretty womyn looking wantonly at the camera. My “self” (eyes included) knew fairytales with happy endings; my “self” can recite Beauty and the Beast from memory. My vagina doesn’t know happy endings.
My vagina knows it has burnt with desire, but rarely has it been satisfied. My vagina knows the names of my “self’s” crushes, chanted at point of orgasm, but has seen very few of them visit. My vagina is embarrassed, with lips that aren’t cute or small, and a point of access that is “too tight”, my vagina and self agree, it is not adequate.
My “self” is ashamed. Supposedly I am a feminist and I love all of my body. My “self” knows better. We love my breasts, and mouth, and eyebrows…everything else is negotiable.
What does my Vagina smell like…sex, and soap
What would it wear? A corset and jeans…if it were thin…if not a moo-moo will do.
Maybe, one day in a land far far away my “self” and Vagina will find a wicked prince (or princess) and we can all live happily ever after, where no Prozac is needed.




I think there is no reason for me to say any quips or anything cute or funny with this post...come back later and I will be what ever you think I am



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