Feminists everywhere feel Phantom Pain

So, maybe I roasted a chicken for my boyfriend with old bay, shrooms, thyme, shallots,  le carrots, and le petite potatoes. Maybe, every now and then,  I think it’d be way easier to be a housewife in 1956 than have too many plays to write and rewrite and not an original idea in my head for any of them. In reality, as a housewife,  I’d last about a week before I went crazy, drank all the cooking liquor and hit on the milkman.

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