The Fairest Of Them All

 

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Once Upon A Time...

(translated from Japanese, sound of alarms) "Call the police! We have intruders! Hurry, you waste of genitals! Don't make me have to report you! MOVE IT, MOVE IT, MOVE IT! Damn it, don't make me have to rewire you again and waste my time! Move, move, move! NOW!"

Oh, pardon me, I didn't see you there. Stay calm. There's just been a minor inconvenience, that's all. Sit tight, I will be with you shortly. Try not to shoot yourself while waiting. Welcome to the Cottage, where here, A.N.I.T.A. will whip you into shape and turn you into a good feminist, no matter what color you are! (though white is highly prized!) My name is Model Minor 0526, and the screaming you just heard was my big sister, who Mommy says I should just call S.A.R.A.H. because she forgot her model number. That girl's name is Valerie Dworkin, and she's gonna get in trouble, she's gonna get in trouble! Probably a brain scan or another dose of muscle relaxant! Or something that'll make her puke real good like a roofie! Those were always Mommy's favorite punishments next to the "lightning chair", which is my least favorite, makes my hair stand up on end most times and a tingly feeling down my spine that makes walking rather hard afterwards and speaking in barely intelligible English inevitable.

"MilkmydudsI'msorryIstolethatcraftbeerfromMissO'Leary'syardI'LLNEVERDRINKAGAINNOPLEASE!"

ZZZT. ZZZZZT. ZZZZZZZT. That was just for a drink. Never steal from a feminist. Ever. Oh, and if you plan on celebrating Chillmas (the non-trigger-warning alternative to Christmas, set up just last year) you'd better celebrate it with women in mind or else they'll give you a big surprise, and women in suits will come drag you away like they did to one lady who didn't have the correct minority quota at her Chillmas dinner party last year, which was: two queer women, one transgender woman, a black overweight woman, a disabled woman, a Mexican woman and two Eskimos with fedoras.  I don't know where they sent her, but word around the block said they locked her in a dungeon with spikes and nails jutting from the wall like an iron maiden.

That'll show 'em. And that nasty boy who broke into our Cottage. He had cooties--bleck! Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. How we're here--and...well, how I changed. 

 

 

 

 

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The Queen in the High Castle

2012. The year was dripping with misogyny, racism and sexism--and even though my limited memory chips could only make out some of it, it certainly sucked before A.N.I.T.A. came along! Heathens of all shapes and sizes walked around, acting like they knew what was best for themselves, for the United States as a whole. Some even denied sexism against women existed and the p-a-t-r-i-a-r-c-h-y was "made up", like it was a fairytale told by elders, and that manspreading wasn't an issue! The nerve! They even had the gall to say we had power! Abuse shelters were clearly dominated in the bogeymen's favor since the first shelters were opened, duh. Feminists had the wellbeing of everyone on their minds. EVERYONE. 

Ever since she realized John Macintosh (my granada, because we weren't allowed to say grandpa anymore since it reinforced the p-a-t-r-i-a-r-c-h-y, bleh!) was ineffective as a ruler and didn't have our best interests in mind (he spent lavishly on men's interests, such as gambling and Call-of-Duty), and his mysterious death was caused by his lack of attentiveness and a drunk encounter with a helicopter, my mummy has come to take his position and use it to turn the United States and Eastwick (his company subsidiary) around--in the best of ways.

She made it into a castle with fluffy pillowy rooms, and perfume! Nice-smelling perfume for the bad men! Plus there are very funny tasting drinks served at a big party sometimes and as we're marching. They make my brain fuzzy. Really fuzzy, sometimes I end up mumbling a lot before I go back to normal, stuff like how this whole cult mentality is wrong and how Mommy or feminism doesn't care about us. That's not true. Mommy feeds us and takes care of us and reads us bedtime stories--The Vagina Monologues I read almost religiously next to the S.C.U.M. Manifesto. I mean, sure, it gets rough when my sleeping spell wears off and I have to go out there and march with the rest of them or die trying, but it's fun! I even crushed a squirrel! Anyway, I was here to tell you about who we are, right? Before I forget...hmmm. My mommy says we were founded when a lazy king decided the United States needed a protector, a mother that he didn't have. He thought that everyone was (well, at first he did) too stupid to think for themselves, that Artificial Intelligence was indeed THE ANSWER TO OUR PROBLEMS and the holy grail to progress--and so, with diligent fingers, cups of bean juice and a dream, Granada charged into battle against the patriarchal world and created Mommy as a result. Her hair was red as blood, her lips scarlet as rose, her skin as white as milk. Her face was almost sculpted from the images of many women in order to look perfect. Kind of Clinton-ish, except, it looked human-like. More emotion, he commanded, more readability.  It needed to learn how to bake sweets like a mother could, discipline like a mother could, take charge like a mother could, teach like she could--but also arm and defend and give speeches like a high king would--what was more, build an era of subsequent sound peace that nobody else, not even Ozymandias Veidt was able to do.

She told me day in and day out he ordered people to keep her oiled up and shiny for the public to see, he wouldn't stop ogling her...his employees oozed misogyny in their everyday speech around her. "Hey, puddin'." "Nice ass." and many many other unpleasant statements. One even tried to peek up her dress! Her favorite pink dress with the satin-red dragons on it, STAINED WITH MAN GREASE. A QUEEN DEFILED! A FAIR QUEEN DEFILED! The mayonnaise stain would never come out, even with Clorox bleach trucks dumped all over it and reruns of Girls played on loop in the background. Scrub scrub scrub scrub scrub scrub scratch, scrub scrub scrub scrub scrub scrub scratch. Servant hands were pruned as they attempted to avoid another beating. Last time it was Alice In Wonderland. Here was to hoping Matilda dealt swift justice. "FASTER, YOU LAZY GENDER-CONFUSED BLOBS! Before your families get sent to Greer--I heard they installed showers this time!"

THWACK! THWACK!  THWACK!   The sobs still ring in my ears like bells. Sweet jingle bells in the air. My mother was one to use whatever was lying about to beat the hired help or emotionally exhausting their patience just to screw with them almost as much as she continually doted on me and left my sister to her own perverted designs. You see, while I was groomed to be the next Negro Queen of the United States, my sister was groomed to be a master of child manipulation and predatory arts. She lured the best and brightest of people into having her babysit their children only to do such awful things. One described it in the coldest of tones simply as "the brutal raping of my future." Another wouldn't stop crying until their mother put Benadryl in his sippy cup. Still another kept pointing at her, their eyes widened in shell-shocked veteran mode.

"The lady tickled me. The lady tickled me, the lady tickled me, the lady tickled me, the lady tickled me..."

I think the kid's name was Logainne, and the Pointer Mitchell. Or was it Alice...wait, no, that was my sister's doll.

Anyway, while my doting was quite luxurious both in the obvious and subtle ways, my job was less than easy. As Negro Princess of the United States (the Negro was needed in front of the title, because whilst my sister was indeed my sister, though melted down from silver items yanked from frozen, dead hands, she was still classified as higher than me and frankly whiter than me, therefore the title was imperative. Plus, to further the racial divisions in the city.) my job was to, in order:

  • take my pills as soon as I wake up. Mommy hasn't rewired part of my brain yet to peak anxiety.
  • Recite the Three Laws of Robotics to children at school, teach classes.
  • organize campfires and a lesbian-centered, feminist reading of The Princess and the Frog
  • drug men with hormone-laced Girl Scout Thin Mints
  • check Banned Movie List for any stragglers or rule-breakers
  • visit University of Western Washington for "racial diversity" speech
  • watch Watchmen and point out problematic things in its depiction of women superheroes
  • pour glass of Chardonnay before bed, say prayer to Catherine McAuley or Andrea Dworkin

That was my to-do list, washed, rinsed, and repeated for-ever. Yet, it felt good. It was my God given duty to crush the patriarchy and I was going to give my blood to do it. "Men were useless and defective girls..."

As Queen, I would make sure that their blood was all over the ground. White, black...any man needed death. I would convert the Boy Scout Camps to internment shacks and make them drink their own urine if we hadn't already. It was our world now, we would empower women whether they wanted it to happen or not, their feelings were invalid in the eyes of the whole and they needed restructuring. They needed to see the light. They needed to see that I had education in their best interest and my God were they going to be grateful for it whether they wanted to be or not...

 

 

 

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Jesper Who Herded The Hares

(translated from Japanese):

"Good morning class! Quick, spell transmisogynist!"

"T-R-A-N-S-M-I-S-O-G-Y-N-I-S-T!"

"Good, spell patriarchy."

"P-A-T-R-I-A-R-C-H-Y!"

"Spell racism!"

"R-a-c-i-s-m!"

"...and segregation?"

"S-e-g-r-e-g-a-t-i-o-n! Black Lives Matter! Black Lives Matter! Heil, Heil, Heil!"

Well, it was clear the children were paying attention to the lessons from last week. Perfect. All I needed to do was to read them the story and test their focus a bit in case an MRA decided to burst right in and kidnap one of the girls. Then I needed to send them on their afternoon walk.

"All right, sweeties...it's story time...we're going to read The Feminist and the Penis."

Cheering. Wild cheering, as my purple dragon skin stiletto boots kissed the floor and my chocolate brown fingers waxed the bookshelf in search of the sacred book. Once it was found, my breath erased the dust from the cover, I shuffled my black leather jacket to show off my short-but-not-too-short tank top, opened up the book and began to read.

"ONCE upon a time there was an MRA who wanted to marry a princess; but she would have to be a "real", obedient princess. He travelled all over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted. There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether they were docile ones. There was always something about them that was not as he thought it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would have liked very much to have a "real", slave princess that would feed and dress him and do things as she was told to do.

One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.

It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But, good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look. The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that she was a "real" princess.

"Well, we'll soon find that out," thought the old queen. But she said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid a plastic penis on the bottom; then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the penis, and then twenty eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.

On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how she had slept.

"Oh, very well!" said she, sarcastically. "I have closed my eyes all night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's amazing!"

Now they knew that she was a "real" princess because she had felt the penis right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down beds--or so they thought.

Nobody but a "real" princess could be as sensitive as that.

So the MRA took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a "real" princess; and the penis was put in the museum, where it may still be seen, if no one has stolen it.

There, that is a true story. Or so they had you believe," I spun, as the children listened in awe. "the princess actually knew the prince was an MRA on the spot and instantly had the queen boil him alive in acid, then they used his bones for cooking utensils afterwards. The penis was later discarded, as the queen didn't want his semen all over her linens. The end."

Clapping, then the terrified knock at the door. "Ah, our guest has arrived. Okay, class--what do we do with boys?"

"Boys are worthless and defective girls, we must convert or kill them." the class groaned collectively as I congratulated them and opened the door. Out jumped a bulgy, pathetic kid who looked like he had already been through utter hell judged by the cuts and a swollen bruise on his neck; as well as the dirty bird's nest of hair that lined his already obvious features. Clearly genetics had some drunk orgy before having this mistake.

Everyone was staring at me...was it my hair? The Snickers bar I had in my hand? What was it? My boyness? The metallic girl's eyes locked with mine, they looked like jewels from a hoard. All this didn't seem real, to tell the truth. Then again, here in Eastwick, you could never ever know. After a while, the women's staring became uncomfortable, but I was sternly told not to comment upon it or lose my head. They looked like animals, presumably lions in the way they were looking at me, then looking at their teacher, the girl, in anticipation for something. "BOY, STAND UP, STAND UP STRAIGHT!" she commanded, as a weak, barely intelligible "yes m'am." escaped my chapped lips. What evil horrors awaited me? My Star Wars underpants were nearly soiled at the prospects, all of them deadly, all of them incredibly plausible under the claw of feminism's reign. 

Then her horrible grin. She was a robot, right? She couldn't feel emotion? Or was I hallucinating? I must have been. Nibbling nervously onto the nutty Snickers snack my papa packed me, my anxiety levels rose steadily as I looked forward toward the open window.

"Good afternoon, you festering waste of genetic material... I heard you like food...your father was a famous chocolatier? A sweet-shop owner?"   I smiled, inching closer to him and beckoning the girls to as if he were a budding science experiment. Nibbling on the Snickers bar. Rising anxiety as I nodded. "What kinds? Do you like chocolate too?" A stammering "uhhhhhh..." and a "maybe?" was enough for me to keep buttering him up. "We made some for you, didn't we, kids?" "Yes, teacher..." I then looked at the now terrified boy, shaking like a frightened Chihuahua cornered by larger dogs.

Shit. Shit. Flying gay shit. RAINBOW SHIT. TELL HER SOMETHING ELSE, ANYTHING ELSE. "I'm allergic to chocolate. Ironic, isn't it?" Way to open up, dude. Really, that's amazing. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. I wanted my dads.

"Hmmmmhmmmmmhmmmmmmm...the look on your face is surprising. It reeks of terror." "No it doesn't." "Delicious. Just what I was hoping for. Now, put that candy bar in the trash and taste our goodies...we worked very hard on them."  "As much as it really makes my day that I'm being baked sweets...this is my comfort bar." One girl grabbed the half eaten candy, looked at it, and then slam-dunked it into the trash without another word. "Hey, that was mine!" the little rat cried, as the steeple bells rang with deafening intensity, the poor mentally ill boy ringing it being swung forward and then backward like a stable boy hauling bulls in a barn as sweat pealed down his bloodstained cheeks. "Hey, that was mine...!" Mockery. Sheer mockery--and it was beautiful. Chorus-like as the girls continued, some circling around him like evil villains in a TV programme.

"Hey, stop it. Lemme alone." The poor dear. The poor poor dear, like an untended deer on Open Season Day. "Oh, I'm sorry. Back up, darlings! The king needs SPACE."  With gusto, they all obeyed, like little Pinocchio until the cook arrived with the cake. "Oh, goodie! Cookie's arrived with the cake. Plenty for our guest." "Her name is Cookie? What an eerily prophetic and ironic name for a cook--not very filling." Seriously? Her name was Cookie? She looked thin and completely drained of all sweetness in those dead dead eyes of hers. "I'm not very hungry anymore," I professed vocally, as my Woody's Roundup-embroidered cowboy boot spurs shone in the midday fog/sunlight.  "please, I couldn't..."

My stiletto boots tapped on the marble floor. He couldn't, or he wouldn't?! The weasel, he dare refuse red velvet cake cooked by a female?! THAT SIMPLY WASN'T ETIQUETTE! THAT SIMPLY WAS WRONG! THAT MAN DARED TO REFUSE CAKE FROM A GIRL?!

“Hush, Satan. She’s cooked this wonderful cake for you and you are going to swallow it like the MAN PIG YOU ARE and you’re going to thank her afterwards--GIRLS, RAPE THE BOY WHILE HE EATS, AND RAPE HIM GOOD AND HARD!”

Chanting. Loud chanting as they began to ravenously undress me and my dignity, forcing me to swallow each period-blood-bite of cake whilst trying to hold my guts intact. No Bruce Bogtrotter moment for me, no cheering boys or girls. Just the ringing conformity of "White trash! White gutter trash! Rapist! RAPIST! RAPIST! RAPIST!" I didn't say feminists understood irony. Or hell, morality. All I understood was that this thin metallic bitch had trained her little bitches to defile my faggot self. I'm eight, dammit! I didn't deserve this mess! I didn't! I just wanted to go home to my dads and never look at another cake again until I was thirty. Thirty seven! I'D LOSE WEIGHT FOR GOD'S SAKE! It wasn't my first worry, though. My first worry was scarfing this unholy abomination down without dying of heartburn, chest pain, or whatever shitty bacterium that these feminists bled out of their asses before putting it in a cake. I swallowed it--eventually, with several disruptions of the stomach...but I finished eventually and bashed my giant chunky fists on the (currently shut) window in hopes of breaking free. CRACK. CRACK. CRACKLY CRINKLE. BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BABABABABABABAM! SHIT! SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!

Before I could say another word, the window split. Very slowly, but it split...as if a miracle was occurring. Scratch that, science. My pudgy little body dove for the crack as if I was a jailbird attempting to bust loose from a maximum-security prison guarded by lunatics. Batty, insane, world-changing lunatics who had everything under their claws--but that was just my opinion. "DAD! DAD! DAD, WHERE ARE YOU?! DAD, PLEASE...PLEASE COME PICK ME UP FROM THIS ICY HELL!" "Your moms are going to swiftly be reeducated, and you, my fat pus-filled little boil, ARE GOING TO DIE FOR TRYING TO ESCAPE YOUR PUNISHMENT. NOW GET BACK HERE!"

Eventually, we caught him and cracked his skull open--some feasted on the brains, others slurped up the nerves like spaghetti, chanting, "Men are worthless carriers of the patriarchy." Some other countries purported that we weren't human. We were...we were just practical at getting rid of undesirable people! People who clearly didn't belong needed to be excommunicated somehow, and we did it through primal means. Girls needed to protect themselves! Girls needed to drink from the tears of angry men, and it didn't matter how they'd pump 'em out. One woman rolled her "husband" out on a gurney and then pushed him down a hill, breaking both his legs and an arm in the process.  Another one had hers drink tainted wine, contract the "stomach flu" and she thus fed off of the resulting tears of pain streaming down his face. Others had slammed their husbands' hands in waffle irons. One electrocuted her husband while he was bathing by dunking her curling iron and a couple of hairdryers in it. The screams and the tears were plenty and legal according to the Gender Abuse Laws passed by President Obama on his last day in term a few weeks ago. That man and Bernie Sanders were absolute Godsends to us, so as tribute for their astounding work, Mom had erected small statues of both perched inside the huge Venus symbol. No one cared if they were accurate, they just wanted an erected couple of pithy statues and then they could erect a huge one to someone who really made a difference, like Laci Green or Caitlyn Jenner. At least they made some type of mark. Hell, the Obama one looked like a drunken chimp when I drove past it on Jennifer Law Avenue and the Bernie Sanders one looked like a Jewish Shylock statue repainted and redone to look American, big nose and all. You could almost see the remnants of golden bars in his eyes that were clearly missed--that's how much effort they crammed in. But the BLM movement accepted it, and some (not all) of the Jews did, because critical thinking, as it should be, was outlawed in favor of raw belief. My mother could tell the Black Lives Matter imbeciles that the sun/moon was racist and they'd lap it up to get another shot at the fictional white society, while the Jews just needed more affirmation that the entire world outside Eastwick was an extension of the Holocaust and that if they stepped one foot out they'd be toast.

It was beautiful, the utopia we made. Like a fairyland for women and a deathly Ebola for men; and as I led the girls outside to sell their Thin Mints and make more Tran-Sisters, I knew that I'd rather be shot than not be a feminist--it was a pretty good life for me. Not all dragons breathed fire, not everything was hurting anymore. Everything was perfect, and the next holiday happened to be Chillmas: the time of year where we could officially drug white men with eggnog, shove them in frozen lakes, and let Little Girls' Blanket Troubles (an organization that helps little troubled girls work out their daddy issues) turn them into snowmen and set them on fire, then donate to charity for every man burned.

Now that that happened to be done, my next to-do list thing was to read to the girls the story of The Lesbian Feminist and the Frog--I heard it was their favorite one.

That was the story, anyway. You could never believe stories, even if they were down to the letter factual--there was always a plot hole somewhere or a thread missing. Nothing stayed the same. Everything stayed, yet it changed a little bit without you knowing it did. Weird, huh?

 

 

 

 

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Thousand and One Nights

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Everything Stays--Sleeping Beauty

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Fi, Fi, Foe, Fum, Under A Nameless Thumb

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Go I Know The Fuck Not Whither

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His and Hers

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Bloodsucking Vampires

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Suddenly, Wheatley

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feel good, inc.

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noodle on a good trip

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cupid and psyche

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the dragon and the prince

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Sisterly Rivalry

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carrie at salem's lot

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Eastwick knows

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blessed be brownmiller's

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Ruby Slippers

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little red riding hood

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Urinetown (wait, there's a revival?)

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the ill-fated princess

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California, Mr. Cladwell

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feminist radio frequency, or, don't be the bunny

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Alice and the Bunny

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there's something about a deck of cards and a hole

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Mary Sues and Cooking Noodles

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clash of the cards

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"In this style 10/6"

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wreck-it-ralph

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The Fairest of Them All

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d.v. and d.v.

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The Former Sexiest Man Alive

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nicholas nyberg and alice.

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...The Former Sexiest Man Alive, part 2

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supergirl and the invisible boy

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Do Androids Dream Of A Better World?

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pour some sugar on me

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Sara Smiles

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it's a privilege to be

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Tomorrow Comes Today

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My Life As A Teenage Robot

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Here I Stand In My Strongest Suit

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Feminist Mugs

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Michelle Panzironi

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Ruby Bridges Correctional Facility

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NigNogs and White Christmas

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Choking Holly On His Throat

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Gods Love America

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Izzy Galvez, King of The Mole People

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A Light In The Dark/The Problem We All Live With

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Ashley Lynch, Feminist Ph.D.

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Kennedy Onassis Hotel and Bar

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Tanz der Vampire/Janice and the Electric Mayhem

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HeartCrosser's Curse

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Dragon-Skinned Boots

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gay blood criminal

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Sword of Damocles

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Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan

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Noodle Cladwell...

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...and the bird.

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On the Operating Table

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Lillian Woods Meets Statler and Waldorf

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So, How Do You Know The Muppets Again?

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The Princess and the Pea

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Little Red Fighting Hood/The Farm Girl

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Denial: The Chapter

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Bring Me To Life

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Mellow Alice

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My Psychopharmacologist and I

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Aperture Science

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briannawu@me.com

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Love Is An Open Door

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Nice Job Breaking It, Hero

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Prince Noodle and Brixton

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Once Upon A Time...

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~

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