D
ear Friends and Family,
In our current political climate, everybody
is more than aware the world is being ravaged by none
other than a deadly, vicious virus: angry, annoying femi-
nists. These women are demanding equal rights, rioting
on the streets, speaking out against abuse from their
male counterparts and drilling for an end to gender dis-
crimination. Demanding respect — as if they deserve that.
As if they’ve earned it. I have always considered myself
to be clean of the illness they call “feminism,” with my
life devoted to actively trying to avoid the contagion. To
me, those afflicted represented the lowest level of society
— the self-proclaimed victims who do nothing but com-
plain.
Feminism is a disease that leeches onto women’s souls
— making its victims utterly undesirable to the men who
are forced to listen to their constant nagging. It’s an
instant repellent. For research purposes, I reached out to
Chloe Findling, a well-known victim of feminism for an
interview. The interview itself had to be conducted over
the phone, as I could not risk catching the disease myself.
Findling, a freshman at Scripps College, was diagnosed
with Class-A feminism, or, the scientific term Feminista
Fatalis, when she just a vulnerable, unsure 14-year-old.
When describing her mind state prior to her exposure,
Chloe explained, “When I came to high school, I had a
really hard time with boys because I was insecure and I
thought I could mold an identity for myself that was not
like ‘most girls’ — which made me secretly malicious.”
When asking what she meant by this, Findling described
an urge to manipulate her female friends at the benefit of
the men she desperately craved the approval of.
This helpless mind state was the perfect storm for the
feminist plague to pry into Chloe’s mental stability. The
warning signs were subtle — at first, she had no way to
identify the sickness infiltrating her wellbeing. Instead,
she only started noticing symptoms when the feminism
had already secured its power over her central nervous
system. Her brain started identifying what she referred
to as “inherent sexism,” a myth fabricated by feminists
to validate their so-called “victimhood.” Once Findling
recognized this, she felt the uncontrollable urge to spread
her disgusting feminist germs to other innocent members
of society. She marketed her contagion as “empower-
ment,” using the mantra, “Empowered women empower
women” to draw more victims in.
She discussed her experience of coming to terms with
the illness taking hold of her body, saying, “I found com-
fort in myself and in my gender, in my personality, in my
beliefs, in everything I stood for. I became who I really
am, and now I use my gender as something that empow-
ers me, instead of letting it push me to be something I’m
not.”
The feeling Chloe described is one very common of
those affected by the painful disease. Doctors describe
the process of contracting feminism as a gradual rewir-
ing of the brain, causing symptoms such confidence and
determination to arise from the illness’ destruction. As
a direct result of this, many victims find themselves in
a warped mental state, motivated to bring down the so-
called “patriarchy.”
While Chloe painted her exposure to feminism and its
side effects as liberating, I knew her lies were just a side
effect of the plague. I stopped listening to her speak after
less than two minutes of the interview — her statements
were so foreign to me that it sounded as if she was speak-
ing in tongues. Everyone knows feminism manipulates
the mind — halting all ability to conduct rational thought.
As second class, inferior citizens, a woman could never
truly feel comfortable in her own skin. Even the thought
of that sounded absurd. My discussion with Chloe served
as a symbol of the feminist deceit, so I stayed as far away
from her as possible. I refused to fall victim to the disease.
But I have been plagued.
I tried to keep my health as long as possible. I took all of
the safety precautions necessary. I scrubbed my floor daily
on my hands and knees, rubbing extra hard to make sure
no feminist bacteria grew. I shaved morning and night to
make sure I was not mistaken for an armpit-haired femi-
nist killjoy. I rallied for candidates who wanted to take
away women’s reproductive rights. I gave up the 28 cents
I should have received myself to far more deserving male
coworkers. I even wore face masks in public so that femi-
nist air wouldn’t penetrate my healthy skin.
But therein lies my fatal mistake. I did not wear my face
masks in the comfort of my own home. How was I sup-
posed to know that a victim of feminism was in front of
my eyes this entire time?
My mom never discussed her illness — it all hap-
pened so quickly. To be honest, I’m not even sure
she was aware of how ill she was until the encoun-
ter. Feminism is a clever disease. It affects all of
its victims differently, causing some to have more
external symptoms than others. My mother’s
sickness was internalized, making it much more
difficult for people, including myself, to identify
her suffering. Because of the illness’ artifice, I
innocently brought up my encounter with Chloe
to her, thinking she would rally behind me in my
investigation of the most reckless of our time.
But I was wrong. Her mouth opened, and out
poured pungent, powerful stenches of rationale.
She preached, “Women deserve equal rights, end
of story. Right now, society seems pretty messed
up, and I really hope our future brings a brighter,
more equal atmosphere for women in all spheres
of influence.”
I was shocked. I was confused. I started to cry.
When I went to wipe the stream of endless tears
from my face, I made a traumatizing realization: I
was not wearing my face mask.
I was plagued. The feminist disease hit me
harder than any illness I had ever experienced. I
had become a walking parasite. I felt the chemi-
cals rewire my brain, and suddenly my thoughts
told me it was okay to believe in equality. Like
Chloe, I was soon able to identify the sexism with-
in society, and I wanted a change. I was not inferior to any
man. I could be whomever I wanted to be.
It no longer felt like my brain was being hijacked by
invasive mutation. With each symptom becoming more
powerful, feminism became a crucial part of my identity.
I later found out the feminist disease runs in my fam-
ily, though scientists have yet to prove it is hereditary. My
grandma too is a feminist, demanding equal pay to her
male counterparts as she continuously exceeded their
performance in the workplace. Hearing this before would
have caused me to disown her, but now that I am sick, I
am incredibly proud of her efforts. It’s funny — my illness
makes me feel strong rather than feeble. I guess that’s just
a paradox left for scientists to figure out.
I’m sorry if I’m hurting anyone by announcing this
to the world. I just couldn’t mask my disease anymore.
Although I may be ostracized from society, condemned
by the patriarchy, and exiled to a life of liberation, I felt
as if you all deserved to know. I do warn you, though, the
mutation is very powerful, and it’s coming whether you
like it or not. Those affected, including myself, expect
resistance. Nevertheless, the feminist disease will per-
sist. After all, the illness has grown an immunity to oppo-
sition.
Sincerely,
An ill-bodied, parasitic, toxic feminist (aka Andie
Horowitz)
Wednesday, January 23, 2019 // The Statement
2B
BY ANDIE HOROWITZ, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
The feminist disease
Managing Statement Editor
Andrea Pérez Balderrama
Deputy Editors
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Designers
Liz Bigham
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Copy Editors
Miriam Francisco
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Photo Editor
Annie Klusendorf
Editor in Chief
Maya Goldman
Managing Editor
Finntan Storer
statement
THE MICHIGAN DAILY | JANUARY 23, 2019
ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTINE JEGARL