I was working on a project with an American film director, when he came up with a surprising statement.
"You have a female brain," he said.
I looked up from my notebook, where I was scribbling away and cockec my head to the side.
"Huh?"
I was hoping that he wasn't going to confess to me that he liked buttsex and that while my soul belongs to God, my ass belonged to him.
I eyed the door and tried to gauge the rime I would need to escape this situation, if need be, and whether he was strong enough to overpower me.
He would have been strong enough, but to my relief, he said, "All the female characters are doing the work. The male ones tend to do nothing or get into trouble. You're quite the feminist."
I tried to count the number of women I fooled around with (and actually came to the unimpressive figure of, slightly embellished, 300) as well as my male egotistical ways. Surely, this cannot be true.
"Emmm... no way, man. I'm a motherfucker."
"Suit yourself."
And yet, here I am, recovering from a most girly emotional episode, eating some comfort food and reading chick-lit.
I think, one day, I will write a book with a female voice, mostly to women everywhere.
