Make Me a Sandwich, Not A Museum.

            I am not a feminist. I celebrate my right to be feminine, but in no means do I plan to be treated like a man. When I heard about the bill for a National Women’s History Museum, I thought it was just plain unfair. There is no need to cause further separation about the genders.

            In the article, I caught the gist that “the government has to take care of [the museum]”, fiscally. However, the museum is a complete waste of resources. Women are already in museums around the country. There is no need to construct additional tributes when women and men can be honored equally in the same building. While history is an important part of advancement, we should be more focused on making history rather than restating it.

            As far as I know, there is no National Men’s History Museum. And if there is to be equality between genders, how come only one sex gets a museum? Senator Collins stated that “this [National Women’s History Museum] would help ensure that future generations understand what we owe to the many generations of American women”. Does he mean that future generations need not busy themselves over understanding the contributions we owe to Man?

            The entire bill is ridiculous. According to WashingtonWatch, around 80% of voters are against the museum’s construction. Congress needs to listen to the people, and understand that women are equal, not superior. There is no reason to build a National Women’s History Museum.

Holocaust.

          Adrenaline courses through my veins like the bloodthirsty River Styx burning through the hellish gates of the Underworld, yet I am placid- oblivious to the fiery scene around me. How beautiful is this deadly, spiraling torch of crimson as it melds into the sunset! I revel in this delightful arson, this perfect crime. Pulsing heat from the embers immerse my fingertips; the intoxicating scent of smoke and moribund leaves tantalize my senses. Alas, the sharp crackling of the blaze bitterly awakens me to reality. An acrid, suffocating smell of burning rubber sears my nostrils as the combustion laps forcefully at my sneakers. In my trance, I failed to notice the rough wood bark, so tenderly guarded in my hands, turn to speckled ash. Only the velvety smooth caress of deathly gray dust remains. The cinders are so fragile, so beautiful; my coffee-tainted breath catches in the midst of the inferno. Dry gusts of heat then immediately scorch the inside of my mouth.  A cry pierces the air. It is the sound of pure, undiluted fear- the desperate fleeing cries of frantic creatures. Even pale gray wisps of serpents slither towards the sky, away from the sparks, and dissolve into nothingness. What a bête noire this conflagration must be to them! In the last, haunting notes of this spontaneous, destructive symphony, I witness the wilting death of auburn leaves as they are consumed by the inevitable- the ravenous, devouring flames.