She quivered with pleasure , of the inner thigh, at the thought of how she would inact her revenge against what the anti feminist man had written. One day she would write an unsexist book, or better yet get a man to write a proper book about women because now she was too busy getting a pedicure and taking selfies. Her sandbag breasts heaved up and down to remind her of her oppression of having to carry them. Her empty mind echoing with the instructions of the last man to talk to her. She made 5 plates for dinner but fell asleep alone when no one showed up. The cat ate three helpings, amirite?

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Memoirs of Rosie O’Donnel?

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