Every day across the lands women write valiantly and cool-headedly about feminist issues with facts, impassioned arguments, research, and insight. They chronicle the daily abuses and setbacks, the advancements and breakthroughs. Then, on some days, they
rest get really fucking pissed. And it is glorious.
Yesterday was one of those days, when Rebecca Traister rounded up a sobering state of the union on the status of women in America right now for a brilliant piece at the New Republic called "I Don't Care if You Like It." She began with an anecdote about arguing with a male writer she respects over that horrid Tom Junod shitshow in Esquire. She wished her peer had been more accurate in his support of Junod's piece as a "mostly laudable" sign of progress: