Being a feminist is a struggle. It is a Sisyphean push to gain new, cutting-edge knowledge about oppressed groups that is never completed, all toward the noble goal of shoving your liberal cred in the face of other feminists to assert your superior unoppressiveness. But have no fear, my fellow feminists, for I have claimed the title of best feminist ever once and for all. You, my new subjects, can stop clawing at each other for meager ally points, since my total score is so ridiculous that no other shall come close for millennia and beyond.

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But what, you must be wondering with bated breath, is this daring activism I have accomplished to earn such a glorious title? What have I done to become Super Mega Awesome Leader of Feminism for Life?

I am in love with a trans woman. Here is an artist's rendering of me playing the theremin in triumph.




Did that image give you enough time to catch your breath? Have you retrieved your monocle from your champagne glass of male tears? I hope for your sake that you have, because it doesn't stop there! I also live with her.

I have done so for almost two years.

We moved in together after only two months of dating.

AND WE HAVE FOUGHT ONLY LIKE FOUR TIMES, BUT IT DOESN'T REALLY COUNT BECAUSE I WAS JUST IRRATIONALLY LASHING OUT AT HER BECAUSE OF OTHER STRESSORS, SO I CHOOSE NOT TO COUNT IT!

WoooOOOOoooohooooooOOOoooooooowwwwWWWW THEREMIN NOISES.

Don't worry about the snow-white color your hair must have turned from shock just now. Just think of all the colors you can easily dye it for protest rallies! Rainbow for queer rights! Blood-red for abortion! Etc.!

Let's get back to what is actually important: me and my superiority over you and your insignificant bit part in the fight against oppression. Yes, you. You specifically.

I know. A feat such as mine is incomprehensible to you lowly mortals, but I truly have accomplished this super-duperous mountain of a task.

Now, some of you plebeians might wonder: Since my trans girlfriend is the one who is a member of an oppressed minority, she must actually be suffering, and therefore she is the one who truly deserves the title of best feminist.

Oh, my sweet summer child. You don't understand. She did not choose to be trans, and therefore her suffering is thrust upon her by no choice of her own. I, on the other hand, chose this mountainous burden voluntarily, and I struggle with it every day without complaint.

Almost every waking moment of every day, I have to deal with my beloved partner's trans-ness trans-ing everything she trans-ily comes into trans-contact with. Especially the new china, which I was very fond of!

Sometimes when I hold her hand in public, people smile at us equally, as if we are some normal lesbian couple. I am stripped of my right to get lavish praise for being the best ally this world has ever seen. They should all be bowing at my feet, the ignorant fools, but rather they pay us equal amounts of attention.

Worst of all is when my girlfriend's big beautiful brown eyes flutter their long black eyelashes at me as our soft and supple bodies are nakedly entwined in our double bed, our hidden island paradise for two, far away from all the horrible tragic injustices of the world, and her soft perfectly pink mouth gently coos sweet declarations of her eternal love for me into my ear.

I know. I suffer so much. Your hearts must be bursting from my suffering. Feel free to send expensive tributes to my greatness. Baked goods are also acceptable.

As your new and eternal high empress of feminism, I will lead you all, my legion of mindless drones, into battle. Together we shall purify the world of men and false allies, and create it anew in (mostly) my image.

I'm sure this revelation of your insignificant place in feminism must be taking up much of your emotional energy, and you have already spent a lot of today yelling at people on Twitter and Tumblr. You can relax, my child. Your contribution to the cause is meager but admirable, like when my dog learned how to "shake."

You can now rest easy knowing that I am here to lead you with my superhuman feminism. I will need you at full strength for when the war begins.

(Reminder: I am better than you.) recommended

Ash Stewart is a lady writer who enjoys other ladies, the ukulele, and being insufferably quirky. She lives with her girlfriend in Canada with no cats, yet. This story was originally published on the-toast.net.