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Sometimes, I wish I could fuck my bed

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Sometimes, I wish I could fuck my bed

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Sometimes I wish I could fuck my bed. Not in a weird way. Not like, “Oh my God, this memory foam is so sexy.” No. I mean it in the way that if my bed were a person, I would marry it immediately. I would drop to one knee and say, “You have seen me at my worst, and yet you have never left me. You have never judged me. You have never told me to calm down. Make me the happiest woman in the world. Let’s make this official.”

Because my bed has been there through everything. The 2 a.m. breakdowns, the “I swear I’m just resting my eyes” six-hour naps, the nights I’ve dramatically thrown myself  and hurled into melodramatic despair because somebody with the respect of a man who calls women females dared to breathe in my direction. It has absorbed the tears, the raged indignation, the existential crises, and—most impressively—the avalanche of crumbs from so many fucking snacks.

Think about it: my bed has borne witness to every stage of my mental decline. It has caught me after tragic crushes, terrible haircuts, and the soul-crushing realization that I have, yet again, procrastinated a major assignment until the last possible second. It has witnessed me cry over things that logically, don’t deserve tears, but still feel like the end of the world in the unforgiving stillness of the night. It has held me through stomach aches, breakdowns, my marathon-like binges of Orange Is the New Black, my devilish period, people who’ve fucked me over, and those occasional humiliating nights where I suddenly remember something insanely embarrassing I did in school the other week.

And let’s not forget my beds role as an unwitting curator of my messes. The way my bed airs out my dirty laundry; literally. My pink frilly bras sprinkled across it like fallen soldiers. Random objects? Lost to the abyss, never to be seen again—until I finally get my ass to make the bed, and unearth a hair tie, a spoon, and my favorite pair of socks I swore were gone forever. And does my bed ever complain? No. It holds onto my things like a pirate hoarding treasure, even if half of them end up buried beneath the entirely unnecessary amount of pillows I insist on keeping because “it’s cute!” My bed just accepts its fate, knowing full well that no matter how much of a mess I make, I’ll still come crawling back, completely unapologetic, acting like I’m the one doing it a favor. What a cuntbag I can be huh?

And let’s talk about loyalty. Unlike certain people, my bed has never ghosted me, never left me on read, never made me feel like I was asking for too much. My bed is consistent. It’s not out here saying “I’m not really looking for anything serious right now” while fully expecting me to sleep in it every night. No, my bed is committed. And honestly? That’s more than I can say for most people.

And yet, despite all it does for me, I never appreciate it enough. I use it. I throw myself onto it dramatically, whisper “I hate everyone and everything” into my pillow, scream like a banshee into it, probably leaving its ears ringing if they had a pair, and then go about my day like it didn’t just support my entire existence, and the weight of the person I am. I don’t say thank you. I don’t even acknowledge its sacrifices. Which, now that I think about it, is probably how my boyfriend feels when he picks me up after my merciless rage-filled bitchfits I have about the most minute things that I swear test me every single day. (shout out to you, babe!)

But here’s the thing: it’s not just about my bed. It’s about all the things that hold us up without getting any credit. Women, mostly. Moms, sisters, best friends who text you “he’s literally so ugly” when you need it the most. The ones who let you fall apart, who hold your weight without asking for anything in return. Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about my mattress. Because in a world that persistently demands me to be smaller, to be quieter, to be easier—my bed says, “Nah. Collapse. I got you.”

And honestly? That’s the best relationship I’ve ever had.

Kika. Bali, March 2025

The Never-Ending Peril of Smart Women

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The Never-Ending Peril of Smart Women

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They say, lay just beneath the surface.

Don’t ever let yourself bubble up over the pot.

Fuck you.

I’ll burn the kitchen down.

Better than anyone? Definitely not.

Smarter? Well…

And that’s where I always stop myself. God, can I get any more up my own fucking ass?

They all love us girls like they love their tea—sweet, smooth, quiet, and preferably piqued to their own liking. I, however, am an espresso martini—bitter, cold, and practically no different everywhere I’m served. I like to think I have fully caffeinated thoughts—controversial in their benefits but still pretty enjoyable in the mornings right after you wake up.

There is a very thin, hate-threaded line between being impressive and being annoying.

And apparently, I pole-vaulted that contradiction the minute I hit middle school. Before I turned 12, older people would gawk and awe over intelligence.

“Oh! You’re such a smart little girl!”

They’d laugh and ruffle the top of my head like I was a particularly obedient and talented dog. But then, one fateful day at the school lunch tables, I corrected one of my guy friends on something he said, and suddenly, it was, “Well, actually, it’s a lot more complicated than that.”

It isn’t. He’s just wrong.

I’ve learned that being a smart girl is like protesting through a microphone, screaming obscenities—people only like it when you’re saying exactly what they want to hear. Otherwise, they reach for the big red button, and it’s the same fire drill all over again.

“Don’t be difficult.” “Don’t overthink it.” “Stop being a smart-ass.” But holy shit, I can’t stand it. I refuse to act like an airhead just to protect the comfort of people who aren’t even that fucking bright to begin with.

We are so charming until we become inconvenient. Teenage boys have been the death of me, but then again, what can I expect? I’m 16. My love life throughout high school so far has been nothing short of a series of boys who—beyond my knowledge at the time—were at a constant, silent war with my intelligence, one-upping me any chance they got. I’ve always wondered why. Because these are the same boys who claim they’re so fucking done with these dumb bitches, yet the moment they stumble upon a girl who actually challenges them, who refuses to shrink herself into something easy to digest, they panic. How do you not starve?

They score exactly what they wanted—a girl with wit, depth, and something real to say—and then lose the ball so badly it’s almost funny. They crumble, not because they’re incapable of keeping up, but because they never actually planned to. The idea of a woman having any proficiency over them in any way, shape, or form absolutely shatters them. It’s not that they wanted intelligence; they wanted the illusion and luxury of it—something tame, something they could claim as a trophy but never actually have to compete with.

And so the game begins all over again, almost like a well-known children’s story—cutting me down in conversations, dismissing my thoughts with a scoff or a smirk. They don’t argue to debate; they argue to exhaust. Ugh. And when they finally realize they can’t outmaneuver me, that I’m not something to be conquered, they don’t just walk away. They rewrite the narrative. Suddenly, I’m too much.

Too opinionated, too stubborn, too sharp, too unwilling to let them win a game we were all destined to lose anyway. Give me a break.

It’s almost poetic, really. They spend their lives praying for a girl with brains and then act like they’ve been cursed when they find one. Sue me for it.

I think it is so bizarre how young girls are taught to be patient, understanding, and nurturing toward emotionally immature boys. The idea that if you love him enough, he’ll change. But in reality, no amount of patience or love can force growth on somebody who refuses to see you as an equal—chalking it up to some twisted, ego-centered idea that we’re all just victims of the Dunning-Kruger effect. As pretty as we are, we’re no accessories. Why oil the roads to keep me slow and steady? Keep the fuck up.

And then there are the ones who think they’re different. The ones who call themselves feminists, who roll their eyes at the toxic masculinity of other boys as if they’re above it, who tell me I’m “so smart” and “so strong” with just a little too much strange surprise in their voice. The ones who like to claim they “respect intelligent women” but only as long as that intelligence is convenient for them—agreeable, palatable, something they can nod along to like their favorite song, without ever feeling threatened.

These are the ones who will repost Instagram infographics about gender equality but still interrupt me in the middle of a sentence. The ones who will tweet about how much they love women’s rights but still laugh along when their friends make degrading jokes about us. The ones who say, “I would never date a girl who isn’t smart.” Make it make sense, please!

It’s a subtle game, one that inevitably plays out under our noses. A trivial dismissal of my ideas in a group discussion, followed by him repeating the exact same point five minutes later like it’s brand new. A quiet shift in tone when I correct him—suddenly, I’m “argumentative,” “overanalyzing,” “taking things too seriously.” A self-satisfied smirk when I call something out because, of course, I’m one of those girls. A performative acknowledgment of my frustration, but still—zero. fucking. change.

And yet, if I call it exactly what it is—if I point out the blatant hypocrisy, the way their feminism only extends as long as it isn’t “cringey and gay” to their friends—I become the evil super-villain. I’m “too harsh.” I should “be grateful” that they’re even trying. But that’s just it, isn’t it? They don’t want to change. They just want credit for claiming they have. And to add that men only get worse as you get older; they grow older, but they don’t grow up—just trade school desks for office chairs, teenage arrogance for adult condescension, and playground taunts for boardroom dismissals. The tactics evolve, but the game stays the same.

So what now? Do I shrink myself down into something digestible? Smile and nod, let them win debates they didn’t even earn, let them pretend I’m less so they can feel like more?

Yeah. No.

And there we have it, the never ending peril of smart women. 

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I’m not here to coddle egos or hand out gold medals for the bare minimum. Consider that maybe the real problem isn’t my tone, but really just the truth of it. If your first instinct is to be upset rather than self-reflect… I’ll hold your hand while I tell you this…

Kika. Bali, March 2025