During the middle of last week, I was asked to enter a writing contest, and the subject matter initially felt out of my league.
The piece was to be about a women or about women in general. As unorthodox as it may seem, I’m not a woman. I don’t know about normal thoughts pertaining to the subject, but I’ve spent extensive time thinking about what being a woman would be like. Unlike anything else in this world, being a woman is something I truly cannot do. Sure, aesthetic options are available for such a thing, but it’s only a process of alteration. In other words, a man in a female form.
But, I digress, as expected,  I suppose. With all of this in mind, I took all of my life experiences to their full extent of applicability and entered the contest. I joke a lot about women, much not than I should, especially since my true opinion of them is much more positive. I started writing a paper over the Thanksgiving break. After finishing two pages, my words started feeling ingenuine and almost hypocritical. So, I scrapped it–in a sense, since I still have it. I opted for a poem instead; more meaning with fewer words, a metaphor in and of itself.
It felt good. Almost above me, as if the content came from someone else. I worry still that the general male stigma will come back to haunt me. On a lighter note, the entries will be anonymously judged.
I’m anxious, reader, to hear the results. I want to be compared to competent writers. Being an eagle among turkeys isn’t good enough for me. I’ll keep you posted.

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