The black, tangled web of feminism had overwhelmed me. I’d stay up late into the night, chanting, “Men, men, how do we destroy men?” In the morning, I’d stare at myself in the mirror and whisper, “You’re the victim. Forever the victim, pretty lady” before snapping “DON’T YOU CALL ME PRETTY” at my own reflection. My hair fell out of my head, but grew rapidly under my arms and on my legs. You know it as typical feminist stuff. You know it because it also happened to you.