BUZZING BETWEEN YOUR EARS IS A THING,

which I told him when he picked me up for our first date.

I had to tell him about the fly that got stuck inside my head when I was about three. Before he started making up tales about red flags and such. It was the fair thing to do. The just thing. The right thing. To give myself a fighting chance.

A fly you see, makes noise. It gets all up in your ear canal after it has sat on some kind of compost it found in nature, then sets up camp. When it becomes yours. To keep. Forever. Until probably, the end of all your time. Buzz. Buzzz. Buzzzzzzz.

When you don’t tell the men you date about your fly, they start getting all self-righteous. They’ll try to tell you, “That ain’t no fly it’s a bat.” They get all, “You crazy girl.” Bats. “Shit,” you say. That crazy.

So you’ll tell them about Elizabeth Caddy Stanton and Lucretia Mott — about Seneca Falls and the Declaration of Sentiments.

Betty Friedan and NOW.

Gloria Steinem and the babies we weren’t forced to have.

1968 Chicago.

Redstockings.

Bell Hooks — how they made her try to choose between Black Men and White Women. Pass.

Alice Walker. Yes, yes, yes! Pull up that prize on them.

Then you stare long and hard, throw down Riot Grrrl.

Enough said.

Which will leave them dumb and even more confused. It’s okay.

A fly you see, is not all bad to have lodged inside your head. It is yours. And it’s a goddamn treasure. You fly, Grrrl.