the great danes
Recently I ascended (or descended, depending on your perspective - namely, whether you are a man and think this uniquely makes you special) to complete idolization of formidable women - an obsession that has been festering for years.
For better or worse, what spawned from this surrender was a sense of duty to commemorate the irreverence I witnessed among the women I admired. Some of them I knew or know, others were fiction.
I fantasized about what would happen if they could all be in the same room together for a few hours - whether what resulted would serve as anathema to misogynists, absolute depravity, or both.
So on the night of a New Moon, I sat before an altar of white satin, Pamplemousse La Croix cans, and bee pollen, lit three orchid-scented candles, and vowed to tell their stories. I decided to call them "the great danes."
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